


And in That Light, I Saw You

by ohrange



Category: Banana Fish (Anime & Manga)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fashion & Models, Boys In Love, Depression, Eventual Romance, Falling In Love, Flashbacks, Fluff and Angst, Friendship/Love, Human Trafficking, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Japan, Lost Boys, M/M, Model Ash, New York, Past Sexual Assault, Slow Burn, Student Eiji, Tsundere, University
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-05-09
Updated: 2020-02-22
Packaged: 2020-02-28 07:09:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 17
Words: 112,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18751507
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ohrange/pseuds/ohrange
Summary: In which Ash is a model with a dark past no one dares to question, and Eiji is a design student who escapes from Japan only to be met with the same thing he wants to forget.There was something that broke within Eiji's mind and soul that couldn't be mended so easily.So now Eiji is here, standing in the middle of this impossibly busy street, barely registering the cacophony of noises around him. It sounds like water. Like he's sinking deep into the bluest ocean, limbs lax around him, eyes closing as black blurs the edges of his vision, bubbles traveling from his lips up above before suddenly disappearing.He feels heavy but light at the same time. And suddenly, he questions why he mindlessly accepted the photographer's invitation to come to New York in the first place. Because what can possibly be in New York that can save him from his demons?





	1. Chapter 1

Eiji Okumura doesn't know what to expect. 

Or rather, he doesn't really expect anything at all. 

He didn't spend the eighteen-hour flight from Izumo to New York with buzzing nerves, random fantasies about America going through his head at a thousand thoughts per second. He didn't have a mental checklist of what exactly he wanted to do or how he wanted to spend the next month doing. In fact, this whole trip had been something suggested near the end of his first year of university by a photographer he barely knew. 

He accepted it without much thought, not even bothering to listen to half of what the photographer—Ibe—was rambling about. It was something about Eiji getting his vigor back—something about him taking a break from the stifling environment back in Japan instead of forcing himself to ruminate on how stupid it was for him to participate in something that would so obviously go wrong. 

It's been months since the incident, months since he went back to practice, months since everyone on his team apologized for what they did. But every single time he showed up to university and every time he'd go to practice, hands gripping the familiar smooth fiberglass in his hands, he felt himself tense up—freeze, white noise drowning out the noise around him, the greetings from his teammates and coach disappearing behind that deafening roar. 

He could feel cold sweat take over his body, mouth going dry and heart pounding in his chest. 

He couldn't feel the shiver of delight that used to run up from the base of his spine or take in the air with closed eyes, a smile taking over his features easily. 

Eiji used to open his arms up underneath the blue sky, feel the freedom pick up his short locks of hair and tell himself he believes in himself every time he was going to jump, but now he's just lost. A tiny speck of dust, one out of the seven million people on the world, just another lost Japanese boy who forgot how to breathe.

It’s just the same sense of nothing—a _nothing_ that was loud, his heart thudding in his chest even when he can’t hear it. Eiji remembers those demeaning whistles and whoops, being forcefully lead off to some dark place even when the fundraiser date was over, something heavy and hot over him until a member of his team found him and yanked that weight away. 

In the end, they said he lost his spirit for the sport. Lost his spirit for everything. From the look in his coach's eyes as he every so often glanced back at Eiji's slumped form, Eiji knew that he was disappointed in him. He could hear the flat voice in his voice that told him that he's a man—not some delicate girl who needs protection and empathy. That he should've already recovered from what happened instead of letting it eat him alive. 

Word got out, and when half the university started looking his way, doubt shadowing their faces as to whether or not he asked for what happened or not, Eiji stopped going to school. His teammates took the four-hour train from Kyoto to Izumo, apologizing even when it wasn't their fault, but Eiji couldn't really hear them. 

Because suddenly, he was blaming himself for it. Even if he isn't as tall or strong as everyone else on his team, he's still an athlete—someone who trained and conditioned and competed. So he couldn't understand why he just laid there after a minute of struggling— _why_ he didn't say anything, white pulsing at the back of his irises as the form above him did whatever it wanted.

The photographer, Ibe, who shot a few of Eiji's competitions, said that what he suffered wasn't so much as physical as psychological. There was something that broke within Eiji's mind and soul that couldn't be mended so easily.

So now Eiji is here, standing in the middle of this impossibly busy street, barely registering the cacophony of noises around him. It sounds like water. Like he's sinking deep into the bluest ocean, limbs lax around him, eyes closing as black blurs the edges of his vision, bubbles traveling from his lips up above before suddenly disappearing. 

He feels heavy but light at the same time. And suddenly, he questions why he mindlessly accepted the photographer's invitation to come to New York in the first place. Because what can possibly be in New York that can save him from his demons?

Eiji contemplates going back to Japan and locking himself in his room until the start of his next term in April, but he doesn't have the time to reach a decision when Ibe is in front of him, finger unsuccessfully navigating through the digital map on his phone with a look of wild confusion and anxiety in his eyes. 

"Ei-chan, I think we're lost," he says, zooming in on one place only to zoom back out and quickly swipe across to the next street. Eiji doesn't understand how this man can't even use Google Maps correctly when his camera equipment is far more complicated to use. 

Pulling out his own phone, Eiji wordlessly types in the address of the modeling agency they're supposed to meet with today before letting out a small: "Ibe-san, follow me." His voice is slightly raspy from neglect, but the overall tone is soft, maybe a little muted from the lack of emotion behind it.

Ibe lets out the breath of air he's holding before shadowing Eiji, half of his equipment swinging off his left shoulder in a large padded bag. He learned a bit of English after spending a few months here just a few years back, but his skills became rusty after a while. Eiji is pretty sure that it’s not that Ibe _sucks_ at the language but more so because he’s _afraid_ to speak it. Trying to form coherent phrases and sentences in a language that isn’t your own is arguably a little nerve-wracking, after all. 

The concentration of people barely lessens, the whole city packed full. But to be honest, Eiji prefers this type of environment. He feels less aware of his own self in the way the heaviness lifts from his soul by just a fraction. Because in a place this large, no one could ever guess the emotional package he's been carrying around like fetters chained to his ankles for the past few months. He's surrounded by a sea of faces, so he’s even less important and undoubtedly smaller than in his hometown Izumo, but he's fine with it.

Eiji reaches the agency with less of a dark cloud over his entire being, though everything around him still feels a little intangible—as if he's not really here but back on the day when his soul fractured into several places.

The sudden image of it knocks the breath from his lungs, making him fall forward for a moment before he jerks himself back, sucking in a shaky breath of air. Ibe's hands are fluttering around him, a torrent of Japanese rushing past his lips, but Eiji can't hear it at all. He just closes his eyes, mutters an _"I'm fine"_ underneath his breath, then hoists the few bags he's carrying higher up his shoulder before approaching the massive building in front of him. 

It's made of fortified concrete and steel, the outside as polished as expected from an elite modeling agency. The letters "NK" sit right above the high entrance, the same steel reflecting beams of sunlight and into Eiji's eyes. He has to squint, and for a moment, he sees the reflection of the blue sky and its fluffy, white clouds in those letters, clear as the day. 

His gaze isn't fixed as he tears his attention to the building and to the entrance instead, watching as the automatic revolving doors lead way into a reception whose floor is covered with natural stone, the cement that’s gluing the natural pieces together barely noticeable. The walls are pure white, making Eiji's hairs stand on end, but he swallows, telling himself he can take it—that the color isn't something he should continue to let haunt him.

Ignoring the slightly quickened pace of his heartbeat, Eiji strides towards the building, allowing himself to get eaten by the revolving doors. 

Wordlessly, Ibe follows after him, his own eyes wide and mouth agape. 

The receptionist offers a plastic smile, tucking a strand of curled blonde hair behind her ear. A corner of her mouth is too tight, her eyes lacking real emotion. Behind her is the agency's logo, lit up by a single diffused bulb of blue light. "Welcome to NK Agency. Do you have an appointment?" 

Scrambling forward, Ibe opens his mouth, struggling to respond, but Eiji speaks before the photographer can even try to utter a word. He slides Ibe's card over before flipping the Japanese side to reveal English, returning the receptionist's smile with an equally practiced one. The mask doesn't suit him, and he's sure most of his friends would probably hide and demand the real Eji back if they ever saw such a fake expression on his face, but Eiji doesn't care. 

The façade is placed with care. He wants to let the receptionist know he can see right through her, read her thoughts as easily as she's judging their jet-lagged, foreign appearance. 

In a cosmopolitan place like this, Eiji wonders if New York City is actually proud of all the distinct cultures it houses or if they're just hiding behind a screen with superiority carved into their faces. But, well, he obviously can't attribute the same attitude to every single inhabitant of the city, but he understands it well enough. 

"We're meeting with Max Lobo," he says in accented English. "He should be expecting a photographer named Shunichi Ibe."

The receptionist's eyes drag from the business card to Eiji, then to Ibe, who is standing as straight as a pin next to Eiji. She raises a brow. "I'm assuming you're not this 'Shunichi Ibe'?"

"I'm his assistant," Eiji clarifies. 

"Hm." 

A muscle under Eiji's right eye jumps, twitching under her scrutiny. She's probably wondering why they would let a _child_ help an adult, much less a professional photographer who was asked to come to this top agency. He wants to tell her that he's actually a lot older than he looks, but holds himself back. 

After holding Eiji's stare for another half second, the receptionist picks up the phone next to her and presses a button before sandwiching it between her shoulder and ear. She swivels a few centimeters away like the minimal turn in angle will give her more privacy. As if she needs it, anyway.

She nods twice into the phone before responding with a: "Understood, sir." Putting the phone down, she reaches across the desk to unhook a pair of visitor IDs, then places them on the top of the marble desk. Eiji accepts them, a customary "thank you" slipping from his tongue. Even if he isn’t in the best mood, he somehow can’t _not_ be polite. It’s something that’s already ingrained in his mind and came like muscle memory.

Annoyingly so, sometimes.

"Take the elevator to your left up to the eleventh floor. Mister Lobo will be in the room at the very end of the hallway," she says, motioning behind her with a modest inclination of her head. "And please wear the visitor passes while we work on printing a formal ID for you two."

The two leave promptly, Eiji's sneakers making no sound on the floor while Ibe-san's old oxfords softly tap against the natural stone. 

The elevator doors open immediately with the push of the button, and the two enter in silence. A similar industrial aesthetic decorates the interior, the ceiling laid with a whole mirrored panel while the other four sides are the same steel as the exterior of the building. It's too modern and rigid for Eiji's taste; he prefers the natural warmth of wood, the darkened grains of it etching patterns all over the brown surface.

He finds himself holding his breath the entire ride up and lets out a soundless breath when the elevator smoothly halts and opens to reveal iron-gray vinyl floors. A meter-high piece of concrete wraps around the lower half of white plaster walls, the same blue light from the reception snaking along the top of the concrete. The tiny bulbs are set low enough so the eye can't see them, positioned in the millimeter crack between the concrete and plaster. 

It's a design Eiji hasn't seen before, and though his personal taste wanted to scream "gaudy," a part of Eiji actually appreciated the extreme care in which the designer placed everything. 

Ibe breaks the silence by exiting the elevator first, whispering something about the whole building being a lot fancier than he remembered. 

"Did you understand what the receptionist said?" Eiji asks, holding out an ID while he hangs the other one around his neck. "We should wear this if we don't want to be questioned by security." 

"Oh, yes. Right." Ibe takes one, hastily putting it on as Eiji breezes past time, wasting no time to Max's office. He doesn't exactly know who this "Max Lobo" is, but he doesn’t really care anyway. The guy probably won’t even pique his interest in the slightest, but Eiji is just happy he at least hasn’t sunk so deep that he can’t appreciate an interesting or good design. He feels a little less submerged in ice water and a little more… jittery. Like he’s just come out of a cold bath, skin tingling from the difference of temperature. He doesn't know where it came from, but grabs it anyway, holding it against him.

There are a few other offices on the floor, muffled sounds of talking or the clacking of keyboards reaching the hallway. The only hint of what is inside of the offices is the wide ribbon of glass at the very top, showing white ceilings and the occasional dark accent of color in a few painted rooms. 

Eiji's feet take him to the very end where there is no plaster, steel, or concrete that hides Max's office. Instead, fully transparent glass encases the whole room from floor to ceiling, allowing indirect sunlight to filter inside and the eyes of passersby to peer in—not that Eiji thinks anyone will really openly gawk inside when the person within is probably at a higher position than they are.

If they were being that unproductive and careless about private space, they would probably have to work twice as hard in order to not risk getting fired during their next evaluation. 

That is how Eiji feels about this whole place. It's like a minefield, tension choking the air itself, the employees and models alike with expectations, mounds of work, and reputations on their backs. A rigid environment that definitely doesn't suit the weak of heart. 

Eiji briefly wonders how Ibe is faring. 

He moves to let Ibe knock on the seamless glass door twice, falling behind to gaze at the shelves of books and references lining the wall that sits adjacent to the desk. Framed editorials, magazine covers, and sketches line the top shelf, some stuck between books or scattered throughout random pockets of space. Floating glass bookshelves sport more frames and images. Some have more than a few books stacked up, proving how sturdy they were despite their outward appearance. 

Eiji speculates how someone can step in here without fear that the whole room would just shatter—even if it probably is reinforced. At least the floor matches the same vinyl of the hallway so it doesn't feel like he's walking on a frozen lake.

"Shunichi!" A built man hops up from the black leather chair he's sitting on, tawny fringe flopping up with the motion before settling back onto his forehead. The sides are neatly put up, the front arranged in a small swooping wave. 

Eiji decides that the style works well for the man, but that he probably only styles his hair on days he felt like it. He seems like the type who does that.

Max greets them at the entrance, welcoming them inside before letting the door fall shut with a small click. He waves at them to sit on the chaise across from him, grid-tufting still fully plush. Eiji notes the tapered metal legs, the curve breaking the angular lines of the chair itself. 

"Is this your son?" Max offers Eiji a smile, the type that is always genuine. But the single phrase itself neutralizes the kind gesture. Instead, Eiji's mouth falls into a flat line. 

"Ah, no." Ibe shakes his head, waving a hand in the air. "My assistant—he is my assistant." 

Brows raised, Max nods, accepting the position easily. "Does he know what you are here for?"

The question hangs in the air, and Eiji actually isn’t too surprised by it. The moment Ibe told him he'd be accompanying him to a month-long business trip to work with a modeling agency, it struck him as odd. Back in Japan, Ibe is a freelance photographer who regularly shoots for newspapers and other news-related magazines; he never once had work published under a creative company. 

But Eiji is a design student, can understand English, and was unconsciously desperate for a change of scenery and pace. Everyone thought taking Ibe's proposition of becoming his assistant for a year was healthy for Eiji—both education and career-wise as well as psychologically-wise. 

Now, Max is suggesting that there is an ulterior motive to Ibe flying all the way to the other side of the world. 

So when Ibe averts his eyes, letting out a quiet "no," Eiji feels slightly betrayed even though a piece of him was already expecting something like this. 

Max sighs, but he doesn't look too concerned. "Shunichi, do you understand that this isn’t something a kid should casually take part in?" 

Eiji clenches his teeth. 

"Ei-chan will be fine. He was not doing well in Japan, so when you told me that model—Ash—does not easily trust adults, I thought he could help."

Max purses his lips, thinking for a moment, then sighs. "As long as he's sure," he says, eyes swiveling to Eiji's as he leans back into his chair. It creaks underneath his weight, rolling back a few centimeters. 

Eiji still doesn't know what he's supposed to be sure of, but he accepts nonetheless. "Yes, I am." 

Max breathes out. "Okay." Standing, he allows himself a grin, nodding toward his door. "I know you two must be tired from the long flight, so I set up an hour window with Ash. I tried to ask for a closed shoot, but the president won't allow Ash to be alone with someone he hasn’t met personally. Spend today getting to know the boy as the next photographer he will be working with but don't mention anything about his background because the whole crew, coffee boy and all, will be there." 

As the two get up from their seats to follow after Max, Eiji leans to the side. "Ibe-san, you understood everything, yes?" 

The photographer nods, but it's hesitant. "The... important parts," he answers back in Japanese. "To appear ‘normal’ in front of the model." 

"And will you let me know what you're really here for later?" Eiji looks pointedly at him.

"Yes, yes. Later," Ibe promises.

-

Max leads them down a floor where the entire place is bathed in white, the only color resting in the people and sets.

The floor is divided by heavy curtains that hang from the ceiling, multiple models at work simultaneously, though most are only practicing or lounging around, sipping water as they talk to their fellow friends or crew members. Music pumps through the speakers, and though it's the type of mainstream pop that can sometimes be distracting, it somehow puts the whole room into a rhythm, upping the mood by a few notches. 

Not that Eiji is really feeling any of it. 

He can sense multiple eyes on him and Ibe as they enter the room, but it doesn’t last too long.

Max claps someone on the back, leaning over as he laughs at something he says. Easy charisma emits from the figure in waves—the kind that makes everyone feel comfortable regardless of the situation they are in. 

"Take care of them, alright?" Max says, squeezing his shoulder. "They just came from Japan a few hours ago and didn’t really get to catch a break before hurrying over here." 

"Of course!" The man turns his attention onto Ibe and Eiji, holding out a hand to each of them. They both take it, and he shakes their hands in unison. "I'm Sergei Varishikov, but everyone calls me Blanca. A pleasure to work with you." 

He's so tall, Eiji has to tilt his head up to meet the man's eyes, bobbing his head down in a half-hearted bow.

"So I heard you'll be doing scattered shoots with Ash over the next month," Blanca continues, turning to regard the boy sitting backward in a chair, arms leaning over the top of it in boredom. "He's a bit of a handful, but I hope you'll be able to work well with him." 

At the mention of his name, the boy's eyes flicker up, and when they fall on Eiji, he seems to perk up, chin lifting from his arms. A trace of a smile tugs at the corners of his lips like he just found something amusing. 

Eiji averts his eyes, deciding to unpack a few things.

After finally putting down the bags he was carrying the entire time, Eiji pulls the last one off Ibe's shoulder before crouching down, unzipping the largest one to reveal a tripod, a few digital cameras, and about a dozen different lenses and other accessories. They're all nestled close together, separated by thick pieces of nylon and foam.

Ibe continues the conversation with Blanca as Eiji starts putting the equipment together, screwing on the lens Ibe usually starts with. 

"Wow, I can't believe they hire kid assistants in Japan." The voice is smooth and a tad bit condescending.

Eiji has just about had it with people mistaking him for a child. Based on the description Max and Ibe painted Ash out to be, the boy is probably no more than eighteen years old. 

Setting the camera down, Eiji straightens, another nerve ticking off when he finds that Ash is taller than him. The words tumble out of his mouth before he can help himself, salty and bitter. It’s completely uncalled for, but quite frankly, Eiji doesn’t care right now. "Excuse me, _sir_ , but I'm older than you." 

Ash blinks back, caught off guard as Ibe breaks his conversation off, head snapping back to look at Eiji with surprise. Blanca's widened eyes only stay for a mere second before they melt into amusement. 

"Well, sorry." Something sparks in Ash's eyes. "You look young. I thought you were a kid." 

_You're the kid._ Huffing, Eiji turns back to the equipment, pulling out the tripod and letting the legs extend out to a standard height. He fixes the camera into its usual spot, rolling the switch on before testing out the focus and brightness. 

Ash doesn't return to his seat, instead, watching everything with curiosity— _or rather_ —Eiji notes, feeling twin holes burn into his skull— _somehow, I'm interesting enough to blatantly stare at._ He can't tell if it's because the boy wants him to be unnerved or if there's something on his face. 

In any case, it doesn't matter. Eiji tells himself that even if the boy doesn’t like him, the feeling is only mutual.

He isn't usually this petty, more so good-natured—the kind of person people like not because of his looks or because of his charisma or something like that, but because Eiji is _nice._ Kind, soft, and agreeable. Eiji attributes his outburst to the fact that everyone today has been getting his age wrong. He admits that he has a complex about his softer features. 

Blanca claps his hands together, corners of his mouth quirking up. The noise breaks the tension in the air. "Let's start, shall we?" 

Ibe immediately comes to Eiji's side, one hand coming up to pat his shoulder. "Are you okay?"

Eiji nods. He presses his lips together. "I'm really sorry, Ibe-san. I hope this... doesn't negatively affect your work." 

"Don't worry." Ibe gives him a reassuring smile. "I'm glad you're more lively today." 

The comment doesn’t really stick. Eiji steps over it, getting back to work. "I've set everything up for you already. Since it's a casual introduction to get to know the model, I figured stills from one single angle was appropriate enough." 

"Thank you." Leaning down to grab one of the spare cameras in the bag, Ibe offers it to Eiji. "You are my assistant, but I want you to get some experience. I know photography isn't your concentration, but I think it's a good skill to learn." He grins. "It is a lot harder than pushing a button." 

"Of course." Eiji holds the camera in his hand, and it felt more familiar than foreign. Over the past few weeks since Ibe started to gain interest in him, he was slowly coaxed out of his bedroom to places he never went to before. Despite going to a university a good four to five horus away from his home, he didn't really do any exploring in his campus or the area surrounding it. Most of his time was spent in practice, in the libraries, or in studios studying interior design. 

Eiji didn’t feel comfortable going out at first, much less to places he wasn't even acquainted with. In fact, Eiji didn't really feel too much of anything. That is, until he finally arrived at this agency. 

It's like a switch was flipped on. He can't deny the way he was staring down every design aspect of the place, printing the details in his mind for what he now knows is for future reference. It's odd because somehow, he doesn't want to admit that maybe this trip is actually a good idea. 

Obviously, it’s still too early to tell, but Eiji still hopes it will be.

-

The hour passes by a lot quicker than Eiji expects, minutes slipping through his fingers like grains of sand.

Half of the time, he just stood there, watching Ibe as he told Ash to be comfortable and pose in whatever way he deemed was good, occasionally offering words of encouragement and affirmation. 

Blanca took up his time for nearly the other half of the hour, so Eiji really only had close to ten minutes to actually look through the camera, squinting through it, hand adjusting the lens until Ash became a clear picture in front of him. 

Eiji didn't really move, keeping the frame just around Ash, fingers still, the one positioned over the shutter relaxed for those ten minutes that seemed to drag on for longer than the rest of the time. He didn't realize he was holding almost all his breath, barely breathing until Blanca called the time and Ibe started to put the equipment away. 

Black dots danced in Eiji's vision as the let the camera down fall next to him, hands clutching it tightly. 

It wasn't even as if he was entranced with Ash—nothing like that. In fact, he didn't even once have a good look at the boy. 

Those ten minutes that were at a standstill, frozen like a photograph on glossy paper, was Eiji's eyes glazing over, mind devoid of anything, the white all around the studio closing in on him. He doesn’t know what hit him, but it did, and _hard_. 

His fingers shake as he turns the digital camera off and puts it in its rightful place. After zipping it up, he moves to slide it over his head and across his shoulder, but Ibe takes it from him before he can. Max has come back, offering to carry some of the equipment to the taxi waiting for them in front of the building. 

"Hey." An arm slings around Eiji's shoulder, pulling him against a warm body. He tenses, coiling up like a spring. 

"Your boss asked me to take you out somewhere tonight," Ash says. His face is open, jade eyes clear. "Do you drink?"

 _Ibe-san?_ "What?" Eiji's brows come together, eyes sliding upwards to meet Ash's. "I'm only nineteen; I'm not legally allowed to drink." Shrugging off Ash's arm, Eiji moves to pick up the last bag of equipment. "And children like you should go to bed early. Your parents set a curfew for you, didn't they?" 

"Well, luckily for me, I don't have any. Parents, I mean."

Heart stopping, Eiji halts. 

"Not that I need any," Ash continues, shrugging. 

Eiji actually feels somewhat betrayed by himself that he almost felt bad for the boy. 

"Ei-chan, you should go with Ash," Ibe pipes up, taking the bag from his arm. "Go have fun."

Gaping, Eiji attempts to take the bag back, fingers nearly hooking around the nylon strap. But Ibe pulls out of reach, already hurrying to where Max is. The two adults hop into the elevator, the steel doors closing as Ibe waves at Eiji, giving him a thumbs up. 

Eiji doubts Ibe heard what Ash said. There was no way he'd leave Eiji alone with someone who makes such poor life choices. In fact, Eiji is pretty sure Ibe only suggested this in the first place because of Eiji's reaction toward Ash—that hot flash of anger he felt before biting back at him. Ibe must think there’s something about Ash that brings Eiji closer to his old self. Or maybe he has an ulterior motive—the one he hasn’t yet discussed with Eiji. Either way, both lead to the same outcome: leaving with Ash to some unknown place.

Sighing, he rolls his shoulders back, the muscles on his back tense, his neck protesting against the motion. Eiji's entire body still aches from sitting in a cramped economy-class seat on that stuffy airplane for eighteen hours. Why can't he just go back to the apartment, take a long bath, and go to sleep? He doesn't have the energy to go out right now.

Turning to Ash, Eiji rubs at one of his eyes, feeling the inner corners prickle with fatigue. "I'm grateful that you're doing what Ibe-san asked, but I'm really not in the mood today. I just want to go back and rest. I hope you understand."

Ash tilts his head to one side. His gaze is unreadable, but Eiji doesn't swivel up like he used to when people stared at him like that. Quite frankly, he's too out of it to even feel that way.

"You know, I pegged you as more of the observant type, but I guess I'm kinda wrong on that aspect." Ash steps forward, leaning down slightly as he throws both arms over Eiji’s shoulders. "You're dense when it comes to yourself."

Eiji's face screws up, and he moves a few steps back, annoyance bubbling at the surface, but Ash only has to take one step forward, hands locking together behind Eiji's head. " _I'm_ curious about _you,_ Ei-chan."

A split-second of confusion flashes over Eiji's face before a flush explodes onto his face. His cheeks burn, the blush even heating to the tips of his ears. 

No one but his family and Ibe calls him that, but hearing the title of endearment from someone he just met an hour ago is something that completely catches him off guard. 

"Hm?" Withdrawing an arm, Ash runs a knuckle across the top of Eiji's cheek, grazing the skin so softly that the blush only deepens even more. "What's this?" There's a smug smile on his face that pisses Eiji off even more. He's seriously never felt this irritated at one person before.

Eiji ducks from out of Ash's reach, sneakers squeaking as he quickly twists around. "Fine. I'll go out with you today."

"Good boy." Ash ruffles his hair before lazily waltzing off to the elevators, hands shoved into the pockets of his blue bomber jacket. 

There's something annoyingly effortless in the way he is—like he gets whatever he wants no matter what he does, and Eiji hates that. Because he’s the perfect victim who always has a hard time saying no.

-

Eiji is honestly fine with thrills and all, but this is the first time he's ridden a motorcycle and he can't say he prefers it over the subway and buses. He's vaulted over four meters before, _for God's sake,_ but for some reason, he can't take a single ride. He's also pretty sure Ash is well over the speed limit—not that the boy cares anyway. 

So Eiji just tries not to think about dying at age nineteen as he locks his arm across Ash's waist, pressing his body against his with his eyes squeezed shut. 

When Ash finally stops, almost skidding to a halt, Eiji jumps back, trembling fingers braced against the leather seat behind him as he sucks in a few quick breaths. Yanking the helmet off, he climbs off the bike, trying to hide how much he's shaking. 

"Are you alright? I didn't go too fast, did I?" Ash ducks down a bit, face a little too close to Eiji's to be considered comfortable. 

Twisting his head away, Eiji takes in another deep breath before letting it all out at once. He feels a little light-headed, but it's probably because of his usual nerves. "I would've preferred a taxi," he admits. 

Ash seems to take this seriously. "I'll call a cab next time, maybe make Blanca drive us." But then he grins, patting Eiji's head like he's a grade-schooler. "If that's what makes my dear _Ei-chan_ happy, of course."

Eiji doesn't fall for the same thing again, only returning the grin with a brief look of contempt before striding in after Ash.

Inside, Eiji can easily tell that it's a bar. The entire place is dimmed down to minimal lighting, covered in polished dark wood. In the center is a rectangular island, glass paneling almost covering the entire thing, rows and rows of alcohol and other drinks decorating it. Purple lights hang down from the top, reflecting against the mirror. Wooden stools encompass the island, many of the seats already taken by what looks like regulars while some others are scattered throughout the floor, elbows leaning across circular tables, arms slung over dark, tufted leather couches. 

When Ash catches sight of a bartender with a dramatic purple mohawk, his entire face breaks into a wide smile. Eiji's eyes widen, but he averts his eyes, telling himself that he did _not_ just think that was beautiful. 

"Shorter!" Ash and the bartender clap their hands together, bringing their bodies together in a half-hug. "How's the night been?"

"Well, it just started," Shorter replies, eyes immediately sliding over to Eiji. "And who's this?" Rather than appearing curious, he looks shocked, brows pulled upward to his hairline.

"Ei—" Ash starts, but Eiji completely cuts him off, offering Shorter a curt bow. 

"Eiji Okumura. Nice to meet you." 

"Likewise..." Shorter blinks back at him, then turns his gaze to Ash again. "I know I said you can bring anyone you want, even if they're underage, but isn't this taking it a little too far? He's cute and all so I understand why it might be hard to say no, but he’s a kid so—" 

The words are drowned out when Ash starts laughing, face lighting up as he casts a look of pure delight Eiji's way. 

Eiji glowers. "I'm nineteen." 

"It's hard to tell, isn't it?" Ash stifles another round of laughter, voice shaking. "But the moment he opens his mouth, you'll realize you're wrong." 

"What's _that_ supposed to mean?"

"Aw, don't tease him so much!" Shorter turns to Eiji, cocking his head to one side. There's this aura around him that's brimming with energy. Eiji feels like if he spends too much time with the guy, he'll be even more drained. "Ash can be an asshole sometimes, but he's actually a real softie."

Eiji blinks, then narrows his eyes at Ash before offering Shorter a smile so bright it borders on insincerity. "I figured as much. Though I'd take that last part out." His voice is sickly sweet as he emphasizes his last sentence.

It takes a while for Shorter to process everything, and when he does, he breaks out into full-blown laughter, throwing his head back as he slaps Eiji in the back. _"Holy—"_ he wheezes, barely able to contain himself. Ash casts him a foul look, clearly pissed off that his best friend is literally dying of laughter over someone who just insulted him. "I've never met someone as bold as you. Everyone's too scared to even look at pretty boy over there."

Even Eiji can see why. It's hard standing next to someone who radiates confidence and has the appearance to back it up. Ash has to stand in front of people all the time—to fit any concept and work with multiple photographers and crew members he's probably never met before. Modeling isn't an easy job. Eiji knows there are multiple aspects of it and darker sides people probably overlook. 

He glances at Ash who has already gotten over his previous affront, catching up with Shorter as well as some of the other bartenders. When someone is bathed in so much light, flash going over multiple times that they end up seeing the same white dots in their vision even as the cameras are put down, it often highlights those superficial, surface-level parts. No one would ever know what's happening underneath it all.

Eiji has a feeling that Ash might be one of those people, though he probably doesn't disclose it to anyone. He knows someone just like that, after all. 

"So you want a drink?" Shorter looks at him expectantly, swirling an invisible glass in his hand.

"Ah, but I can't—"

"What?" Putting his arm around Eiji, Shorter brings him to the bar. He still wears that overly warm smile like he's eaten the sun whole for breakfast. "I can't even get you something non-alcoholic?"

"Actually, that..." Eiji trails off for a moment, pausing. When he looks into the bar’s mirror, the fatigue rolls from his shoulders, and it feels liberating. He doesn't know how long it will last or if he'll ever get over this slump, so he grabs the opportunity while it's right in front of him. "That would be nice."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! Hope you enjoyed. ~


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “If you call me Ei-chan one more time, I’m going to kick you out.” 
> 
> _“Ei-chan.”_
> 
> Shoving Ash outside, Eiji slams the door into his face, then pads away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I always see Eiji portrayed as super innocent like he can't even hurt a fly, but I've always liked that salty side of him better lol.

Ash ends up giving Eiji a ride back to Ibe’s apartment instead of calling a cab, but he’s a lot less reckless in his driving, turning into bends slowly and making sure he isn’t way over the speed limit. Eiji appreciates this but doesn’t really say anything, arms only loosely around Ash’s waist, head tilted slightly up to gaze at the night sky. 

He can’t really see the stars because of how much light pollution the city gives off, but he imagines putting himself back at Izumo, leaning outside his window to see the sky clearly, the wind gently rolling across the seascape. The familiar sound of waves reaches his ears, and when he closes his eyes, he feels like he’s immersed in it. 

It soothes him—the sound. 

It reminds him of those times his family used to take weekly trips to the beach and spend dinner there, both Eiji and his younger sister running around with sparklers popping in their grips. 

It was beautiful, and Eiji still misses it. He just hasn’t ever told anyone that he’s been wanting to go back to the ocean. Because lately, he feels like he might drown in the waves if he even so much as sees them. 

He bites down on his bottom lip, arms tightening with the movement. The muscles in Ash’s stomach jump, telling Eiji he definitely noticed, but Eiji doesn’t care. 

They end up arriving in front of the apartment complex close to eight, and Eiji is grateful that he has ample time to relax for a bit before going to bed. 

After handing the helmet back to Ash, he pulls out his buzzing phone, multiple texts flashing across the screen. They’re all from his little sister, full of exclamation points and stickers. And though Eiji usually ignores them if they’re too repetitive, he actually has to almost stifle a laugh this time, the corner of his mouth quirking up. 

Curious, Ash leans over this shoulder, eyes narrowing at the mix of hiragana and kanji. 

Eiji swipes right on one of the texts, quickly typing an _“I’m fine. Got here safely.”_ He pauses before adding _“Thank you”_ and sends a cute bunny sticker with inflating hearts around it. 

A second after, his sister sends another barrage of texts, each one popping up one after another, but Eiji doesn’t have the time to respond, instead, sliding his phone back into his pocket. And it’s not like he _didn’t_ expect this to happen since he hasn’t responded to anyone’s texts for months. His phone even started to feel like a foreign object in his hand after a while. 

“Texting your girlfriend?” Ash raises a brow, smirking. 

“No.” Eiji starts leaving, tucking his hands into his pockets. Even though there’s a lot of noise around them, he can somehow pick out Ash’s voice clearly from it all. “My little sister.” 

“What a nice big brother. Wish I had someone like you.” 

Eiji doesn’t know if he’s hearing wrong, but there’s a twinge of sadness in Ash’s usually smooth voice when he says that, like his emotional baggage for the topic outweighed a lot of other things. So Eiji can’t help but turn, a smile on his face as he attempts to change the mood.

“I can see why Shorter calls you a softie,” he teases. “You went easy for me during the ride back.” 

Ash blinks, then his face tenses as he averts his eyes. “It’s nothing. You’re the one who was hanging onto me for dear life the first time around, and I really didn’t want you squeezing all the breath out of me, is all.” Times like these remind Eiji that some boys are still just boys despite their outward appearance and typical “mature” act. Ash fit the description so perfectly that a piece of Eiji can’t help but think he’s cute. 

It’s easier for Eiji himself to accept defeat and admit his feelings, or cave and let the other party have their way, but Ash doesn’t do any of that. _Not at all,_ Eiji notes. 

“In other words, thanks for taking me to your friend’s place,” Eiji says. “It was a lot more fun than I thought.” 

Ash shoves his head into the helmet, the visor shielding his face completely out of view, and when he responds, Eiji can’t hear him clearly, the words muffled. But he has a feeling he doesn’t really need to know what they were because Ash’s actions speak for themselves.

-

“I’m back,” Eiji announces, taking off his sneakers before sliding his feet into slippers. The lights are already on, and he rounds the corner, head raising as he steps into the kitchen.

Max is the only one there, however, and Eiji can’t see Ibe anywhere. He halts for a moment, taking in a breath before wrinkling his nose. The mix of beer and sake isn’t too heavy, but it’s almost obvious enough that the two men have been drinking prior to Eiji arriving. And Eiji can only guess that Ibe is probably out cold in his bedroom, still in his daywear and probably still stinking of alcohol. 

Shoving age difference aside, Eiji opens his mouth to scold Max, but the man holds his hands up, already owning up to what he did. “I know, I know.” He smiles apologetically, raking a hand through his tawny brown hair, the strands are already undone from their previous updo. “I probably shouldn’t have suggested it, but I already had it on hand, and well… the mood kind of plummeted, so one thing led to another and…” He trails off, not needing to finish the rest.

Eiji sighs, taking a seat across from Max. “Is Ibe-san okay?”

“He’s… alive.” 

“And probably can’t work tomorrow because of you,” Eiji finishes dryly. “I’m not familiar enough with him to know his drinking habits or how much he can drink, but with your bare description of his state, I’m sure he probably already threw up. Twice. And is probably going to have a massive hangover in the morning.” 

Max chuckles nervously, hands still up on either side of his face. “Like I said, I didn’t make the best choice.”

“But thank you for staying instead of leaving him alone,” Eiji says, letting out a breath of air. “You put a trashcan next to his bed, right? And made him lie on his side?” 

“Mm-hm.” Max nods. A sliver of surprise touches his eyes—one that is underlaid with an appreciation for Eiji’s character. “I don’t mean to be presumptuous, but… this late afternoon, you didn’t really seem like the kind of guy who would care too much, but you’re actually the opposite, aren’t you?”

“I’ve… been in a rut,” Eiji murmurs, pressing his cheek against his propped up hand. His eyes keep Max’s gaze for a second more before swiveling to the side where the kitchen meets the balcony. 

The glass sliding doors offer a view of the city, a kaleidoscope of lights blinking up at them from below. They look like the stars that the night sky lacks, and Eiji wonders if New York City’s inhabitants are okay with those artificial stars—if the reason why they don’t really miss the real stars is because they can attribute them somewhere else. “I’m sorry if I seemed a little less… welcoming earlier today.” 

“Shunichi mentioned something like that,” Max says. “And you don’t have to apologize; it happens to the best of us.” 

Inside, Eiji knows he’s right, but he can’t accept that. Somehow, it’s harder for him to forgive himself for being in a bind, and easier for him to forgive others. Human nature is just like that. 

“I wanted to talk to you about Ash, Eiji.” 

His eyes swivel back to Max’s. 

“It’s a sensitive issue I’ve been shadowing for the past few years ever since I heard of it. I want to let you know that I’m still against pulling you into this, but if Shunichi thinks it’s a good idea, then I really can’t refuse since he knows you better than I do.”

Eiji nods slowly, signaling Max to start.

“Even though you might think the media picks up on all the underground scandals and the latest gossip, sometimes some things can be covered up so well it literally passes right from underneath our noses,” Max says, fingers carding through his locks again. “Honestly, I don’t even know why I was so shocked when I found out about it since it happens all the time in the industry, but the magnitude of the issue is just too great to ignore.” 

He’s skirting around the main point like a rat, time falling between every single one of his words. It’s something that clearly makes him uncomfortable, but Eiji thinks Max is more so being tentative because what he’s about to mention is a situation that makes people uncomfortable in general. 

“I have some evidence that Ash’s previous agency is secretly sex-trafficking young children, mostly boys. And that Ash himself was a former victim before Blanca yanked him out of the system.” The words rush out of Max’s mouth, and he doesn’t take a breath before continuing. 

Eiji feels his mouth go dry, his whole body stiffening up to resemble more like a frieze than a living vessel. And when he tries to swallow, he can’t like there’s cotton lodged deep in his throat.

More than considering it a touchy topic, it’s one that Eiji understood at a personal level. He can’t imagine having to go through that again or even multiple times. 

“I quit my job as a journalist to follow this case, but ever since working for the agency, I’ve never once gotten anything out of Ash or Blanca. The two obviously steer clear away from anything that points towards their previous affiliation to the agency they were in before. Even now, I’m sure that bastard Golzine is still forcing children into the system and depositing them elsewhere when they’re not of any value anymore.” Max’s face tightens when he says this, a muscle jumping in his jaw. 

That heavy feeling attaches itself to Eiji again, his breaths becoming fainter. Max’s voice fades slightly. 

“Ash is the only one he didn’t dispose of even when he passed ten years of age, but I don’t even know why—or, or _what_ exactly Ash’s relationship is with the guy. I’m thinking they might have some sort of connection that may shed light over Golzine’s illegal activities.” Max stops for a moment, but when he opens his mouth to start again, Eiji speaks instead. 

“So you want me to try and get closer to Ash?” His voice is rough, and it’s almost painfully apparent how he feels. In fact, Eiji is surprised he can still speak, given the physical condition he’s currently under. “To get him to tell me or give me solid evidence of his former agency’s dark secret so you can expose this ‘Golzine’ to the rest of the world?” 

Max chooses his words carefully, dark blue eyes on Eiji’s. “That’s one way to put it. I just want to stop Golzine from exploiting children for his own profit and pleasure. I… I hope you understand where I’m getting at, Eiji.” 

Eiji’s lips press into a straight line. He uncurls his fists, the slightly red crescents printed into his palms throbbing. “I do, and I know I already said I’d take part in this back at your office, but I need more time to think.” His eyes waver as he stares at his open palms, the skin around his wrists burning. “I know what you’re doing is for the well-being of countless children, but sometimes this kind of thing hurts the victims more than the perpetrators.”

He’s saying all of this based on his feelings, not based on his values or ethics, which is why Eiji needs to cool off before giving an answer. 

And thankfully, Max accepts this. “Of course, take your time. Let me or Ibe know if you’re willing to help us, and if not, we’ll be sure not to press you about it or force you into it. Spend your year here they exact way you want to; it’s what you deserve.” 

_That’s what everyone deserves._ But Eiji doesn’t voice his thoughts. He pushes his chair back, standing as Max mirrors his actions. 

When he locks the door behind him, Eiji lets everything out, crouching down suddenly, head between his knees as he shields himself from his surroundings. He has to take in deep breaths, forcefully pushing each one out so he doesn’t suddenly pass out on the spot. 

Eiji is glad Ibe is out cold because he doesn’t want to wake him up or have him worry about him. 

It’s been a few weeks since he had a panic attack. It’s more subtle this time, and he can somehow stifle the more obvious symptoms through forced breathing, but Eiji _thought_ he was over with them.

He’s not so sure anymore.

Eiji spends the next few minutes in the position, then slowly straightens, hand out to brace against the wall as he does so. And after gulping down a cup of water, he makes his way towards the bathroom, filling the tub up with hot water before sinking into the warmth, pulling his legs up to his chest, neck back against the cold tile. Steam rises, dampening his hair and straightening out the locks to stick to his forehead and cheeks.

 _The water is an odd thing,_ Eiji concludes.

A contradictory thing that somehow both scared him yet made him feel completely safe within its grasp. 

He spends a full thirty minutes soaking in the tub before emerging, pulling on his pajamas and padding to his own bedroom. 

Pulling the comforter over himself, Eiji lies down, face parallel with the ceiling. His body relaxes, tired limbs melting into the mattress. And as he lets himself get carried away with sleep, he can only think about one person: _Ash._

-

The next morning, Eiji wakes up a good hour earlier, leaving to pick up a few things from the grocery store just next to the apartment complex.

When he returns, he drops the bags on the wooden countertop before pulling off his hoodie and donning an apron. It’s something he’s gotten used to packing along with the rest of his clothes and other necessities because he’s always the one who cooks during trips, and this time, that aspect probably won’t change. 

Especially now, anyway, with Ibe still in bed and about to wake up with the worst alcohol-induced migraine in history. 

It doesn’t take long for Eiji to finish cooking breakfast. If anything, he’s just glad that the store actually sold all the ingredients for miso soup; he was expecting to only find rice for okayu, some tofu, and maybe nori, but the store literally had a whole aisle for him to pick and choose from. 

Sitting down, Eiji places his bowl of soup in front of him, chopsticks lying across the top. Then, he sits, putting his hands together to murmur a small _“itadakimasu.”_

He almost finishes before Ibe stumbles in, bleary eyes squinting against the natural light from outside as he winces under the throb of a headache. Eiji doesn’t even flinch when the man nearly loses his balance and falls smack down onto the floor. 

“Ibe-san, I made some miso. You should eat first before taking a shower and going back to bed.” 

“I have a meeting with Max and the rest of the crew he hired for me. I can’t—“

“Not in your current state, of course not,” Eiji responds in a level tone. “No matter how you feel, you probably know that you shouldn’t drink at night before you have work to do. As tempting as it must be, it’s still a bad idea.”

Ibe pauses for a moment, considering Eiji’s words before pressing a few fingers against his temple, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “You’re right. I’ll call Max.”

“He already knows,” Eiji says. “Or rather, he was expecting something like this to happen. Before he left yesterday, he told me to let you know we have the day off. We’ll resume work tomorrow.”

Ibe makes a noise under his hand. As he approaches the kitchen table, the mutters something under his breath about not believing this has happened again. Eiji tries not to look too interested in that.

“Was last night fun?” After Ibe drained half his bowl, he actually seems to be doing a lot better already, though his appearance still makes it obvious what he did to himself the night before. “Where did Ash take you? Karaoke? The cinema? Bowling?”

“A bar,” Eiji says, biting into a soft cube of tofu.

Ibe gapes at him, spoon splashing into the soup. “A _what_?”

“A bar,” he repeats, eyes flickering up. Eiji holds his hand up in the air, shaking an invisible glass. “They have this non-alcoholic ginger pineapple thing that actually tasted really good. One of the bartenders is Ash’s best friend, and he’s super nice. I spent the entire time listening to him tell me funny anecdotes about Ash, so that was a plus.”

“Oh.” 

“Yeah.”

The two eat in silence for the remainder of the time, and Eiji rounds the table to pick Ibe’s bowl up to wash, the photographer nodding in silent thanks at the service. He sits there as the water runs, the sound of porcelain dishes clacking together as they’re placed in the washing machine piercing the air. The towel hanger rattles as Eiji wipes his hands off, head turning slightly behind him to glance at Ibe. 

“You aren’t going to take a shower? Or maybe you want a bath?” He pauses. “Would you like me to draw one up for you?” Eiji converses in Japanese, his words a lot softer than they are when he speaks in English. 

If someone were to describe them a sweet, that would be an understatement. He speaks like there’s spun sugar in his mouth, the candy floss rolling around his tongue. Not that anyone really notices except for those who really listen. 

Ibe shakes his head, hands in the air. “No, I can do that myself. Thank you, Ei-chan.” 

“Of course. Let me know if you need or want anything else,” Eiji says. “I’ll be in my room.” 

He thinks he actually has time to finally sit and give his sister a full report as to what exactly has happened so far, but before Eiji can even put his butt on his bed, the front doorbell rings, three successive knocks following it. 

Eiji actually hesitates for a moment, wondering if he even _has_ to open the door in the first place—if it’s just some door-to-door advertiser hitting up every apartment in the complex,—but he eventually gives in, opting to go in case the person behind the door is the landlady or someone else who’s important. 

His slippers slide against the wooden floor panels, making scratchy noises, but the running water from the bathroom is louder. 

When Eiji pulls the door back, chin tilting slightly to follow the line of the figure in front of him, he freezes. 

It’s Ash. 

Ash with his hands shoved into his sherpa-lined denim jacket, white tee halfway tucked into ripped jeans. His cheeks are rosy from the chilly March air, a faint scattering of pink across pale skin. And for some reason, Eiji notices that the bubblegum Ash is chewing on right now matches that color. 

He blames it on his schooling in design where he once took a class on color composition and spent hours a week for a full term looking at and considering thousands of combinations and hues. 

“Hey.” Ash offers him a relaxed smile, hand coming up in a curt wave. 

Eiji’s fingers tighten on the door handle, knuckles turning white under the pressure. 

His mind starts to wander back to what Max said, but he stops himself before he can really dwell on it. It isn’t the time to suddenly burst out in concern over someone who still believes Eiji knows close to nothing about him. 

“Hi. I thought we didn’t have a shoot today?” 

“Oh, yeah. I’m off-duty. The entire crew is. So I was wondering…” Ash leans in as the corners of his mouth stretches upwards, locks of long blond hair falling into his eyes. “...if you’d like to go somewhere with me today.” He blows into the bubblegum and it pops before his tongue swipes it back into his mouth. It smells faintly of strawberries. 

The door starts to close even before Eiji can give an answer, but Ash shoves his foot in before Eiji can fully shut it. He forces it open with his other hand, wedging his body into the crack and letting himself in. 

“Hey, isn’t it rude to not even give an answer?” He looks at Eiji who is actually still dressed in a wrinkled tee with his university’s logo on it. His legs are clad in an old pair of sweatpants that are clearly too big for him, waistband low on his hips and hem dragging on the floor. 

Earlier when Eiji went out, he only washed his face, brushed his teeth, and threw on a hoodie before running to the grocery store. His hair is probably still a mess, the black tufts sticking every which way, but he doesn’t really care at the moment. 

“It’s not like you have any errands to run anyway, so I’m saving you from boredom, yeah? ” Ash produces another dazzling smile—one that Eiji physically has to turn away from. 

He’s prone to being weak towards pretty things, poring over interior design magazines and concepts posted on the internet. 

Once, he literally spent an entire night flipping through an entire year’s worth of issues from this one magazine he really likes that a former senpai let him have after graduating. He’s such a nerd that he even wrote comments in all of the margins, sticky notes posted all over the pages with arrows and whatnot. The whole stack literally grew double in size after he shoved enough bookmarks and notes in between every page. 

A bit of his pride crumbles whenever Eiji caves, and though he promised himself that last night was going to be the last time he got strung around by someone younger than him, he accepts. “Fine, but let me change first. And I need to tell Ibe-san I’ll be gone for a few hours.” 

“For the entire day,” Ash corrects. “I’m going to help curb your boredom for a whole day, Ei-chan.” 

“If you call me Ei-chan one more time, I’m going to kick you out.” 

_“Ei-chan.”_

Shoving Ash outside, Eiji slams the door into his face, then pads away. 

But the door swings open again—naturally, since Eiji never locked it in the first place.

“Take off your shoes!” Eiji shouts behind him. 

“Sure thing, _Ei-chan.”_

Eiji is going to _murder_ him later.

-

After changing into a collared shirt and sweater, pulling on some jeans, and combing out his hair so it didn’t look like he just rolled out of bed, Eiji walks back to the kitchen where Ash is waiting with his head resting on top of his arms. He straightens when he hears Eiji behind him, fingers gripping the wooden tabletop as he tips back at a dangerous angle that makes Eiji’s heartbeat pick up its pace until Ash sits forward properly.

“So where are we going today?” 

“Everywhere.” Ash hops off the stool, making his way to the entryway before tugging his boots back on. He opens the doors for Eiji. “I assume you’ve never been to NYC before, so I’m doing you a favor and taking you sightseeing today, of course.” 

Eiji sticks the key into the lock, brow raised. “Hm. So you’re ‘curbing my boredom’ and ‘doing me a favor,’ huh? You really weren’t just bored yourself? And I bet you definitely _did not_ have anyone else to hang out with so you decided to ask a guy you just met yesterday.” 

Ash’s eyes widen for a fraction of a second before he can regain himself, so Eiji can’t tell if the flush over his cheekbones difficult is from coldness or embarrassment. It doesn’t necessarily amuse him when he subtly points out Ash’s lies; he really only does this out of habit since his little sister was prone to spinning them out every other day as excuses. 

He’s more akin to a mother than someone who enjoys teasing people for a living.

“W-well, Shorter’s busy and the rest of the crew already has plans today, so I thought—”

“I understand.” Eiji cuts him off, knowing Ash will ramble if he doesn’t. Besides, it really wasn’t his intention to make the boy uncomfortable—really just to point out that cover-ups like those are palpable enough for anyone to pick out, and that he should just speak his mind instead. “I was planning on leaving the apartment after some time to grab lunch and dinner. I guess Ibe-san will just have to put up with miso and some snack foods for the entire day.” _He probably can’t eat too much anyway._

“O-oh. Right.” Ash coughs, shrouding his face from view, and Eiji decides it’s actually kind of cute that there’s such a strong disconnect in his personality. 

One moment, he’s so smug Eiji wants to smack the expression off his face, and the next moment, he’s so flustered that Eiji has to try hard not to fawn over him like he used to when he worked part-time as a babysitter during his last two years in high-school. 

_And I was even thinking about killing him after getting ready._ He doesn’t know if he should be angry at himself for changing his mind so quickly. 

“Here.” Ash tosses Eiji a helmet. It’s new—a glossy black one with a tinted visor that isn’t nearly as dark as Ash’s red one.

“You already bought a new one?”

“Yeah.” 

Eiji peers at it. He doesn’t know the exact price, but he’s heard of some that easily go up to fifty-thousand yen—about five-hundred dollars. “Aren’t they kind of expensive?”

Shrugging, Ash shoves his head into the helmet, flicking the visor up to reveal nonchalant jade eyes. “I model, so I have money.” 

“If you have a lot, do me a favor and please pay off my student loans,” Eiji mutters. 

“What was that?” 

Putting the helmet on, Eiji swings his leg up over Ash’s bike. He scoots forward a bit, wrapping his arms around Ash. “Nothing.” 

“Alright, then.” Kicking up the stand, Ash leans forward, swerving around to weave between two open parking spaces before reaching the exit. 

It’s still relatively early in the morning—a little past eight, but the city is so awake, countless people already up and running. Back at Izumo, there were plenty of inhabitants like students and shop owners who had morning duties, but it never felt as packed as it does in New York City. 

“If you don’t have anywhere in mind, I’ll take you to my favorite spot first.” 

_Ash’s favorite spot?_ Eiji wonders if it’s some well-known shopping district or popular tourist place like Central Park, but when Ash pulls in front of a Neoclassical building, Eiji can’t deny that he’s surprised. 

It has the same fittings as a classic Greek façade: Corinthian columns with frieze, a pediment, and a pronaos leading up to the entrance. But it’s obviously stylized by its architects, two pompous lions flanking either side like stone gargoyles at the lip of a rooftop.

Eiji squints at the carved title right underneath the frieze, mouth forming the words as he reads them out loud. “The New York Public Library.” He blinks. _The New York Public Library?_

Tugging off his helmet, Ash tucks it underneath his arm, then pulls out his key and drops it in his back pocket. Eiji follows him, trying not to look awkward as he carries his helmet in as well. 

“Whenever I don’t feel like doing a shoot, or if Blanca decides to piss me off, I usually come here,” Ash says, hopping up the set of stairs. 

They pass through the middle arch, and Eiji has to try hard not to gape too hard at it all. It’s architecture that’s a lot more different than what he sees at home, and even then, he himself doesn’t focus on the exterior; only on interior design. Being able to gaze at something like this in real life and not just in ar history textbooks is kind of surreal—even if it’s not exactly a replica of a Greek temple. 

“And, well, Blanca knows I’m here most of the time, but he just lets me off the hook since he knows I’ll probably show up the next day with a nasty attitude if he sends someone to get me from here.” 

When they enter, Eiji’s eyes widen a fraction. It’s not exactly packed with people, but the sheer size of the place is astonishing in and of itself. 

Polished linoleum floors, long wooden desks on either side, spanning six seats in length. Bookshelves line the sides, stacked up one on top of the other, gridded arched windows letting columns of natural light in. There are even chandeliers hanging low from a decorated ceiling. Eiji has to peel his eyes away from the paintings above to focus on what’s in front of him. 

“So, what do you think? Pretty, right?” Ash looks like he’s a little boy in a candy shop. His eyes are glued to the open space before him, taking it all in like it’s the first time he’s seen it. “And peaceful, too. Perfect for when you don’t want anyone to disturb you.” 

“I never really thought you were the studious type,” Eiji says bluntly, finger running down the spine of a thick volume on history. “Or one who enjoys reading books for fun.” 

Ash pauses for a moment. He’s not the least bit offended by the comment. “Well, I barely went to grade school and eventually dropped out after neglecting to attend for weeks, but I still come to the library to study various things when I have the chance.” He taps the side of his head, lips curling up. “Keeps my brain from turning into mush, I guess.” 

Brows coming together, Eiji stares at Ash. “So you learn math concepts and stuff like that for fun?”

“Yup.”

Eiji frowns. “Huh.” 

He hates anything related to math or science. He’d rather have his professors give him fifteen assignments to finish by the end of the week than suffer through that nasty stuff again. It’s not to say his grades in those subjects were horrible; just that he didn’t enjoy them at all when he took them.

Ash jerks his head to the exit, beckoning Eiji outside. “Wanna go to Fifth Avenue? Where the Empire State Building is?”

Eiji honestly doesn’t know what else to do or where else to go, so he follows along, visor down as Ash cruises through the area, stopping occasionally to take Eiji in someplace. 

There’s a moment where a huge poster of Ash is hung up in front of the window display of a store, and Eiji just stares at it before bursting into laughter, commenting on how the fresh concept doesn’t really suit him. Ash, of course, drags Eiji away from it, avoiding eye-contact from everyone else in case they noticed the resemblance between the model in the poster and him. 

They stop at the Met and walk through Broadway, Times Square blinking back at them with its moving billboards and flashing lights. 

When it’s close to dinnertime, Ash takes Eiji to Central Park, buying two hot dogs from a nearby street vendor, both practically drenched with ketchup and mustard. 

“Sorry about lunch. I forgot about it,” Ash says, giving one to Eiji. 

After taking just one bite, Eiji scrunches up his nose. “This mustard is so strong.” 

“Want me to lick it off for you?” Ash is already halfway done with his in a second, thumb swiping across his mouth where a smear of sauce left a trail behind. 

Giving him a look, Eiji runs back to the vendor for a few napkins, then comes back and wiping all the mustard off. He offers a napkin to Ash who accepts it, shoving the rest of the hot dog down his throat before wiping his fingers and mouth off.

He watches Eiji as he takes his time, jade eyes peering at him openly. Eiji has to look away before he gets too lost in the forest of them. 

Once he’s done, he crumbles up his napkin in one fist, taking Ash’s in the other to deposit in the trash. And when he comes back, Ash is standing, almost bouncing up and down on the balls of his feet.

“Come on.” He grabs Eiji’s hand, pulling him towards his bike. “There’s one last thing I want to show you.”

-

“A ferry ride.” The words pass through Eiji’s lips so softly, he’s not sure if anyone can hear it.

But Ash nods in confirmation, arms leaning against the railing at the very top of the ship, hair whipping into his face as the wind picks it up. He tucks a few longer strands behind his ears, ignoring the shorter ones that can’t be brushed away. “I was worried we wouldn’t be able to catch the last one.” 

“Hm.” When Eiji’s eyes drop to the choppy waves beneath, he swallows, unconsciously scooting closer to Ash. He lets out a breath of air, worried when it comes out more scattered and strained than he intended. 

“Are you… scared?” 

Eiji doesn’t want to admit it, but the words slip out anyway. “Kind of.” 

“Wanna hold my hand?” 

He takes Ash’s open palm curling his fingers over it and squeezing lightly. His other hand grips the railing.

Ash presses his lips together, avoiding Eiji’s gaze. “If you didn’t want to go on here in the first place, you could have told me, you know. Would you feel more comfortable being inside?”

“No—” Eiji breaks off, biting his bottom lip. “I mean, _yes,_ but I-I’m fine. I’m used to the water since I live next to it… it’s just that, lately, I’ve been associating it with something… um, something bad. It makes me feel like I’m sinking—that… that I might disappear if I stare into it for too long.” 

“Then why not focus on the sky?” 

It’s a simple suggestion—one that Eiji hasn’t really thought about. 

“It’s all psychological, but doesn’t it sort of make you feel like you’re floating? Wouldn’t that lessen your feeling of drowning?” 

Ash is right. 

When Eiji brings his line of vision up, the blue of the water barely skimming the lowest part of his view, he feels… lighter somehow. 

Dusk has just started to break across the entire sky, stretched clouds in shades of pink underlit by golden rays. The whole scene spans out across the city as if it’s wrapping its fingers protectively around it, grabbing a hold of it so nothing else can snatch it away. 

Ash offers him a small smile. “Doesn’t it work?”

Eiji returns it. “It does.” He wants to laugh. _It actually does._

His phone rings at that moment, one out of the over fifty texts his sister has sent him throughout the entire day. 

She’s begging Eiji to show her what he’s been up to the entire day. Apparently, Ibe told her not to bother Eiji today since he was going to be out with Ash. So now she’s curious about this ‘Ash,’ asking over and over again for a picture. 

Taking his hand from Ash’s, Eiji types a quick _”No.”_

His sister sends five stickers of a dog with large doe eyes. 

“What does she want?”

Eiji doesn’t look up from his screen, already in the process of sending another rejection. “A picture of you.” 

Before Eiji can press the “send” button, Ash snatches the phone out of his hands, deleting the block of text before switching to the camera app and holding the phone up. He puts his arm around Eiji, fingers forming a peace sign.

The camera flashes, capturing Eiji’s expression of shock next to Ash’s sly smile, and Ash promptly sends the photo to Eiji’s sister.

“What—” Eiji takes the phone back as his sister responds with a flurry of messages. Without even glancing at the screen, he already knows she’s gushing about Ash’s looks, because who in the world would think the boy isn’t pretty? 

“What’s she saying?” Ash peeks over Eiji’s shoulder, but Eiji mutes his phone temporarily before shoving it back into his pocket. 

“That you look normal.” 

Ash raises a brow. “She sent heart eyes.”

“She always does.” 

“What?” He flashes Eiji a smirk. “Jealous of my good looks?” 

_More like fawning over them like my si—_ Clearing his throat, Eiji turns back to the sunset.

“Come on, _Ei-chan._ Give me a straight answer, will you?”

Eiji hides a grin behind his fist.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!~ (:
> 
> I’ve been wondering: would you prefer random updates (whenever I finish a chapter), or scheduled updates (every Thursday night EST)?


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Shunichi, are they… dating?” Max’s hushed voice breaks the silence, and a crew member throws something at him, completely ignoring the fact that he’s their boss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll try and update every Monday EST, but if I ever get done with two chapters (or three, etc.) in a week, I’ll also go ahead and post those as well. Thank you for your input! (:

“You’re actually quite good at this, Ibe-san.” Eiji is scrolling through the photos of Ash Ibe took the first day they arrived at New York, pausing to stare at each still. His eyes flicker to the front where Ibe sits in the passenger seat of the taxi. “I know fashion photography is different than the type you usually shoot.”

“Ah, it’s because of my late wife,” Ibe explains, tapping his chin. “My concentration was in photojournalism, but she was a fashion student who always needed help shooting her projects. So I suppose I have a lot of experience with it.”

“Oh, I see.” 

Ibe rarely talked to Eiji about his personal life. Prior to this conversation, Eiji assumed that Ibe simply never found anyone he wanted to marry. Or that he doesn’t wish to get into a serious relationship. He never would have guessed that Ibe already found someone, though that person isn’t in this world anymore.

He lets out a breath of air, chin propped on his hand as he stares out the window, finding rows of cars on each side of the narrow streets, offices, stores, and apartment complexes peeking out from between, so high they looked as if they’d reach the heavens. People dot the empty spaces, every face melding into the next until they looked like a blur of images smeared together.

All people are enigmas. 

Humans aren’t the simple creatures most would think they are—Eiji is just now realizing that fact. 

It only depends on how someone presents themselves and how much information they’re willing to let out that lessens their outward complexity. 

And without meaning to, Eiji’s mind wanders back to Ash.

“—chan.”

Someone touches Eiji’s shoulder gently. “Ei-chan?”

He blinks, head swiveling to the side. “Oh. Ibe-san.” 

The photographer smiles warmly. “We’re here.” 

Eiji slides out of the car before leaning back in to grab the equipment, giving one bag to Ibe before sliding the rest over his head on his shoulder. 

When they enter, the receptionist glances up briefly before going back to her work, recognizing the two. 

They’re already wearing official IDs they received from Max when they left on the first day, photo, name, and title printed neatly at the front of a glossy white card. Ibe tucks his into the front pocket of his shirt to avoid it swinging forward every time he has to move, but Eiji doesn’t really mind the constant movement too much.

“What floor?”

Ibe pats the front pocket of his trousers and back, eventually finding his phone in his green parka. He fishes it out, scrolling through one of his texts. “Fifth.” 

It never takes as long as Eiji expects to reach their destination, the ascension a lot faster than other elevators he has ridden in. And when they step onto the floor, Eiji’s surprised to see that instead of an open set, it’s a closed one, each room separated by walls from top to bottom. 

Ibe lets himself into the first one to the right after knocking, emerging with a smile on his face. 

But the mood inside is absolutely terrible. 

Blanca is on the phone with someone while Max paces around. The crew is confined in one spot, each of them awaiting instruction as Ash lounges to the side of the set, slouching forward in his seat, arms crossed in front of his chest, glowering at Blanca. 

He’s still in his streetwear, jacket slung across the top of his chair. And even when Ibe and Eiji come in, he maintains his sour expression, turning his head away slightly. Strands of blond hair come loose from behind his ear, obscuring half his face from view. 

Ibe’s brows come together. “Max, what’s going on?” 

Sighing, he rubs his face. “It’s about the other model who we hired to shoot with Ash. Apparently, he’s pulling out in the last second, but our client specifically wanted him to appear in their campaign.” 

“Which is _splendid,_ ” Ash comments loudly, “because I hate him. He’s the most vain and obnoxious person I’ve ever met.” 

“You can’t cast a different model instead?” Eiji asks. “Aren’t there plenty who maybe have the same image or aura as the one your client asked for?”

“Well, that would be a little difficult,” Max says, “because the one our client wants isn’t someone who can be easily replaced. You’ve probably seen him before since he’s a fresh face who’s been quite popular recently.” 

Eiji doubts it, especially since he literally holed himself up in his room for a whole month, barely getting by to finish his classes.

He pulls out his phone, opening a page up on Google. “Could I have his name, please?” 

“Yut-Lung Lee.” 

Typing in the name quickly, Eiji presses the search button. 

He’s immediately bombarded with a series of new articles and photos of the model, his face plastered across Eiji’s screen, editorial after editorial. 

Milk white skin, a slim face, small lips, phoenix eyes typically rimmed with color. Thick hair frames his features flawlessly, the satiny strands like that of a black curtain obscuring some kind of gem from view. 

If Max didn’t refer to the model as a “he,” Eiji honestly wouldn’t know his gender; he has an androgynous face that most would probably mistake for a female’s rather than a male’s. And with the kind of concept most directors and photographers were going with, Yut-Lung is definitely portrayed as the former. 

He seems like the type of person who understands their worth down to a single penny, could get what they want without so much as letting out a breath of air. Truth be told, he actually reminds Eiji of a certain someone, though the vibe Yut-Lung gives off is more darkly seductive than outright. 

Chocolate put through a machine enough times that it was smooth as silk. 

Eiji brings his eyes up to Max, no suggestions left on his tongue. “I completely get where you’re coming from.” 

“Which is _why_ the problem is set higher up in magnitude because of all the days his agent has scheduled the shoot, they picked the last possible one.”

“Sounds like they purposely wanted to screw us over,” Ash adds. “I told you it was a bad idea.” 

“He only gets _this_ infuriating if anything about Yut-Lung is brought up,” Max mumbles. “I swear he was plotting to murder us when Blanca told him about this shoot a few months ago. Guess I can rest easy tonight knowing it won’t happen anymore. For now, at least.”

Glancing at Ash through his peripheral vision, Eiji asks, “Did something happen between them?” 

“They got into a bit of a squabble during a party last year.” Letting out a puff of air, Max checks the time on his watch. It’s only noon, but he already looks like he wants a bottle of something strong. On a weekday, no less. “I don’t really know the details.”

“Not that knowing will help.”

They look up as Blanca approaches them. He doesn’t look nearly as stressed as Max does, but Eiji has a feeling that he doesn’t usually get worked up over things like this. He seems like the type who’d still be in a peaceful state of mind even if he had a ten-million bounty over his head.

“I called the representative we sent to talk to the Lee’s, but they haven’t accepted any of our offers of compromise.” Blanca stops for a moment. “And we’re definitely not going to accept theirs.” 

Max shakes his head. “I mean, we don’t really have a choice, do we? What did they want?”

“Ash.” 

The name hangs in the air, and Max doesn’t even show a reaction. Ibe coughs, hiding his mouth behind his hand as he turns somewhat to the side. Eiji just stares blankly back, the proposition not really making too much sense. 

He’s about to ask what they want from Ash before an unfamiliar voice garners everyone’s attention.

“Excuse me?” It’s someone from the crew, offering a tight smile as he tugs at the front of his t-shirt’s collar. Light brown hair that’s pushed to the side falls into his left eye. “I don’t mean to barge in or anything, but wouldn’t he work?” The guy nods at Eiji. “We’ve all read the client’s proposal, and the concept for the second model is supposed to emulate naivety and innocence, right? Yut-Lung’s alter-ego fits the bill, but I think”—he peeks at Eiji’s ID—”Eiji would probably suit it better.” 

Eiji freezes. _What?_

Clamping a hand on Eiji’s shoulder, Blanca takes his chin in his other hand, turning Eiji’s face one way, then the other. “Actually, I think that’s a pretty good idea.”

“Same here.” 

Eiji almost jumps when Ash appears next to him out of nowhere, voice literally by his ear. Despite being the center of attention ninety-nine percent of the time, he can make his presence unknown to people if he really wants to. Eiji’s worried that he’s going to have a heart attack one day from it.

Ash flashes an appreciative smile at the crew member. “Alex, you have a good eye.” 

He nods before going back to the rest of the crew who starts rearranging the set, softboxes flicking on as the lights above are dimmed to a hazy blue. 

Everything is happening a lot faster than Eiji expected. “Wait, I never—“

“Ah, of course you’re not obligated to accept, Eiji,” Blanca says, “though we’d be extremely thankful and compensate you for the sudden request.”

When he puts it like that, Eiji only feels more pressured to go with it.

But after everything Ash has already done for him, he only thinks it’s right to return the favor. He bites his bottom lip, weighing the two options together. Based on the proposal, it’s not exactly going to be the most _comfortable_ shoot someone could do, but since it’s with someone Eiji’s relatively cozy with, it should be okay.

He doesn’t know if part of it is Blanca’s natural persuasiveness that’s swaying him, but Eiji just waves it to the side. “Okay. I’ll do it.”

“Lovely!” Blanca claps his hands together as Ash steers Eiji towards the crew. 

“I promise it won’t be awkward,” Ash says, motioning Eiji to enter a private room. “Just follow my lead and pretend it’s just you and me in the room. Relax and you’ll be fine.” He disappears into the next room, leaving Eiji to go into his alone. 

“Eiji, right?” The woman inside regards him calmly with a level stare, almond eyes on his. The choppy fringe she has cut an inch above her thin eyebrows is a look that’s hard to pull off, but it suits her well. She holds up an oversized button-down, motioning to the curtain that hangs from the ceiling of the prep room, cutting into a fourth of it.

Eiji accepts the shirt wordlessly before pulling the curtain closed behind him.

As he tugs his sweater off and unbuttons his shirt, he can hear products clicking on the quartz table as the woman lays each one out.

“I’m Nadia Wong,” she says, making conversation even while Eiji is changing. “Shorter likes to talk about you a lot even though he just met you.” 

Eiji stops for a moment, fingers frozen at the button of his jeans. _Nadia Wong._ “You’re… his sister?” 

“Correct.” There’s a lilt to her voice. “You’re welcome to stop by the bar if you’re ever free; he says he’d love to have you again.” 

Eiji can’t help but smile. Of all the things that have happened, he’s grateful that the people he has met so far are amiable. “That’s kind of him. Tell him I definitely will.” 

“Of course.”

After Eiji dons the single button-up Nadia gave him, he emerges, sitting down when he’s prompted to. 

She picks up a bullet-tipped brush, squeezing a bit of product on the side of her hand. Putting her finger under Eiji’s chin, she tilts his face up, puff on the flat of her pinky as she braces it against his cheek for steady application. “Your skin is nearly flawless, so I’m only going to apply a bit of concealer over a few places.”

The liquid feels cool against his skin as she smoothes it on before buffing it out. It’s gentle, and the brush feels like it’s just barely touching the surface of Eiji’s skin.

“Have you been abroad before?” Nadia picks up an eyeliner pen, popping the top off with her thumb. With the flat end of the brush she used earlier, she pulls the top of Eiji’s lid up a bit before filling in his waterline with the brown gel, feathering it out a bit to follow the natural shape of Eiji’s eye. 

“No, not until now.”

“And are you liking it so far?”

“A lot more than life back at home,” Eiji confesses. “I… actually came here to get away from everything for a while.”

“I see.”

They spend the rest of the time in near silence permeated by the short directions Nadia occasionally gives Eiji. 

When she’s finished, she gives him a once-over, eyes flickering across his face. Motioning for Eiji to stand, Nadia undoes the first few buttons off the top before rolling the neckline back to reveal more of Eiji’s shoulders. “Your messy bed-head kinda helps with the concept,” she says, a half-smile on her face as she tugs on one of the tufts. 

Eiji doesn’t know what to say, so he just nods, fingers reaching down to play with the curved hem of his button-down. 

Looking down, Nadia leans her hip against the chair next to her. She taps her fingernails against the metal, the noise a filler for the unwanted silence between them. “It’s… not really my place to offer, but if you ever want to talk about anything, I’m always open. And Shorter seems like the kind of guy who only rambles, but he’s actually quite good at listening too.”

“I appreciate it,” Eiji says softly. His eyes meet the dark of Nadia’s, and it's somehow comforting even though he’s only met her today. If Shorter is the sun, she is easily his counterpart, the moon. “Thank you.”

She turns him around, pushing his back lightly. “Good. Now go out there before Ash gets impatient and storms in here to get you himself.”

-

Ibe comes fluttering to Eiji’s side when he approaches the set, concern written across his face. “You sure you’re okay with this, Ei-chan? We can always find someone else.”

He says that, but Eiji knows there isn’t anyone else to sub in for Yut-Lung, nor is Blanca or Max going to be able to find someone suitable enough on such short notice. Still, it’s only natural that Ibe does this; Eiji is already used to his over-protective nature. He’s sure many people would be annoyed, but he actually appreciates it. 

Back when he convinced himself that no one cared about him anymore—that they _couldn’t_ possibly be able to love him, Ibe never let him go.

It wasn’t that Eiji couldn’t trust his family or his friends, but that, somehow, after growing up next to him for so long or working on countless projects together, pulling all-nighters in the studio and lab, understanding Eiji’s bright side to near perfection—and knowing that sometimes, he could snap, none of them really believed that Eiji could _fall_ as far as he did. 

They’re all kind—without a doubt—all supportive and understanding to an extent that is enough, but when you already have a predisposition about someone’s personality—how they work and what they do, what they like and what they don’t like… what makes them tick as a human being, sometimes it’s hard to look at that person in a different light. 

They wanted the Eiji they knew and loved back, and were scared to approach someone who acted so disparate. 

In any case, Ibe was the only one who was able to approach Eiji with a completely open mind. He was able to keep his perspective wide when meeting him for the first time. 

Eiji doesn’t blame his friends or family for almost giving up on him. After all, he already gave up on himself until Ibe appeared out from nowhere. 

“I’ll be fine, Ibe-san,” Eiji says. “I already agreed, so it’d be rude to back-out just like the model who was originally supposed to come in. I don’t want to put stress on the agency when I can actually do something about it.”

Ibe lets out a breath of air, but he doesn’t seem convinced. “Okay. Only if you’re sure.”

Eiji nods, offering him a smile of reassurance. “Please take care of me, Ibe-san.”

It’s the first set of words Eiji ever said to Ibe.

Right around the time they finally met, he never uttered a single thing in front of the photographer. Even when Ibe took him out on short trips, the entire time was spent in quietude. Sometimes Ibe would comment about something, ask Eiji a question only to be met with either a nod or the shake of a head. But when he finally proposed if Eiji wanted to come with him to the States as his assistant, Eiji actually murmured that phrase instead of confirming through bodily language.

He doesn’t know why he chose to verbalize something for once, especially since he can’t remember ever looking forward to this trip while on plane, but maybe it’s more so an unconscious affirmation.

So when Ibe hears those words, he doesn’t appear to have any more objections. A trace of a smile tugs at his lips. Eiji has a feeling he’s remembering the same times he is thinking of right now. “Will do.” 

After offering a small “thanks,” Eiji pads over to where Ash already is, lacing his hands together so they don’t shake. 

Internally, he wants to curse himself for actually being nervous.

The whole point of Ibe trying to stop him was because he probably knew Eiji would at least be a little anxious about posing in front of a camera and crew when he’s never done so before—especially since he’s not even properly dressed. But Eiji almost always jumps into things, and even when he thinks he’s fully prepared, sometimes, reality circles back to tell him that no one is ever fully prepared for anything.

“You okay?”

His fingers unwind themselves as Eiji curls both hand into fists, tucking them somewhat away from view. “Yeah.”

“Wanna hold my hand?”

The flash of memory is fresh on Eiji’s mind, choppy waves faint behind the natural painting of golden-pink dusk across the wide sky. 

And when he lifts his eyes up to Ash, Eiji lets out the breath he’s been holding. His eyes fall shut for a second, most of the tremors leaving his body. The corners of his lips curl up slightly when he finally opens his eyes. “That’s for Ibe-san to decide.”

“But we’re the ones who set the mood.” Stepping forward, Ash hooks a finger around Eiji’s, cautious first before taking his whole hand in his. 

“So does the crew,” Eiji points out, somewhat distracted by the touch. He half expected himself to at least tense up, but his body doesn’t even react that way of all. 

“True, but you don’t actually think people hire models who just sit around looking pretty, right?” Ash raises a brow. “Agencies want to sign with people who know what they’re doing. Maybe that makes us a little more susceptible to criticism, but it’s what they call an ‘occupational hazard.’” 

Ash’s hand is sort of hot in Eiji’s, his fingers traveling up Eiji’s knuckles to the tender skin of his inner wrist. His thumb runs over it, brushing over the web of watercolor veins that run all the way up Eiji’s forearm. 

Trying not to shiver, Eiji bites into the inner part of his bottom lip.

“You’ve gone over the concept with Ibe already.” Tilting his head to one side, Ash keeps his gaze locked on Eiji, voice dropping to a murmur. “Sentimentality, tender mornings after seeing someone you’ve missed for years, nostalgia you can’t get rid of… it’s painful, a fresh wound that won’t stop bleeding even when you’re face-to-face with them. You want to hold them close, tighten your arms, but you’re afraid they’re going to break, fissures running up their frail body like porcelain china.”

Eiji is starting to feel a little breathless, his whole figure humming under Ash’s velvet-smooth voice. He doesn’t know why he’s so affected when only a week ago, he viewed Ash as a supercilious brat.

There’s something different about the way Ash acts towards him—as if they’ve always been intimate with each other. It’s not the feeling someone has toward a childhood friend, not something family would feel for each other. Eiji hasn’t ever fallen in love before, but he’s certain that _this_ isn’t the burning kind someone would attribute to romantic love, nor to eros where lust dilates the pupils enough that they eclipse the irises.

He doesn’t know _what_ it is.

Ash brushes Eiji’s hair back, the tips of his fingers grazing the skin just above Eiji’s cheekbones. A month ago, Eiji would have jerked away as if his skin was cut and raw, but now he leans into the touch like a kitten, eyes closing for a moment, free hand coming up to circle around Ash’s wrist. It feels natural.

_I barely know him. I barely know him, but for some reason, I’m comfortable with him doing this._

“Shunichi, are they… dating?” Max’s hushed voice breaks the silence, and a crew member throws something at him, completely ignoring the fact that he’s their boss.

Ibe doesn’t respond, the camera clicking as he captures the scene on photograph. “Ei-chan, stand behind Ash, wrap your arms around him.”

It’s a simple direction, and he doesn’t really have to elaborate on anything because Eiji is on autopilot, still under the same spell as before. He doesn’t know whether he should be shocked that his body is moving by itself or mortified that he can so easily slide his fingers across Ash’s bare chest and stomach, cheek nuzzling into the space between Ash’s shoulder blades, form melting against _Ash._ Eiji’s button-down shifts to reveal the pronounced line of his collarbones, the delicate curve of his neck and shoulder, olive skin stretched over slender muscles.

And when he exhales, it’s a shudder that goes through his entire body. His brows come in together for a moment, but then he relaxes again, lids lifting a fraction, gaze directed downward into empty space.

It’s been a really long time since he’s embraced someone like this, and it feels nice. Like really, _really_ nice.

Ibe says something and then Ash is suddenly turning around, fingers coming up Eiji’s neck thumb pressing against his cheek to pull his chin down just a few centimeters. He presses a soft kiss against Eiji’s forehead before pulling back. Eiji can feel his lashes like butterfly wings on his skin. “You’re oddly confident. I’m kind of surprised.”

“Well, not really,” Eiji manages to breathe out. He’s looking up at Ash through the screen of his long fringe, swallowing when Ash lifts a few locks away. “I’m actually terrified.”

“Hm? Of what?”

“Of myself.”

Ash freezes, taking a second to process what he just heard before bursting into laughter. He falls into Eiji, arms around him as his fingers grapple onto Eiji’s shirt, the cotton fabric dipping down even further in the back as the buttoned front strains against the hollow of Eiji’s neck.

Eiji doesn’t even have the chance to be surprised as his heart speeds up at the sudden action, his body bending over underneath Ash’s weight. The boy looks thin at first glance, his height seemingly overcompensating for a lack of muscle, but Eiji is actually having a really hard time keeping himself upright. So much so that he has to stumble back a few steps. 

Heat crawls up his face. _Why isn’t anyone doing anything?_

“Wait, _Ash—“_ Eiji takes another step back, hands coming up to try and push the boy away. His eyes dart to where Ibe is, but the photographer doesn’t spare him a glance from behind his camera.

Blanca only stares at them in interest, fist into the grin on his face. Max still looks stunned, the crew in place as if their feet are permanently glued to the ground.

“Ash!” Eiji hisses, the pads of his fingers digging into Ash’s shoulders. “We’re in the middle of a shoot, _for goodness sake.”_

Finally pulling back, Ash pinches Eiji’s cheeks, jade eyes bleary through tears. “Oh my god, Eiji, how can you be scared of yourself when you look like _this?”_

Anyone who knows Eiji well enough understands that it’s a taboo to talk about his chubby cheeks. They’re not allowed to joke about them, not allowed to discuss them amongst themselves, not allowed to mention them, and sure as hell not allowed to _squeeze_ them while _reminding_ Eiji that regardless of him being a student in university, he still hasn’t grown out of his baby fat.

A muscle ticks at Eiji’s jaw, hardly noticeable.

“Annnd I think that’s a wrap!” Blanca cuts in, literally putting his near two-meter self between the two before blood splatters on the pristine white walls. “Thank you for your hard work, everyone.”

Eiji tries to maintain a completely neutral face as he stands there. Then, he waltzes back to the prep room to change into his own clothes, twisting around momentarily to send one last glare Ash’s way. “At least I won’t have to worry about looking like an old man by the time I hit my twenties. You, Ash? I’m not so sure about that.”

-

Sometimes, Eiji can act like a child. He’s petty, turns sour at the most inappropriate times, and will snap at someone if they’re not sensitive enough. But all of this is usually rare—the Eiji everyone knows doesn’t actually do this often, and if he does, it’s generally because they’re annoying one of his friends or family, not because they’re annoying him.

So the fact that Ash is able to elicit such emotions is actually a skill, and Ibe wonders how in the world he does it. 

“There’s nothing going on between them, is there?” Max has been stuck to his side for the entire time, trying to get Ibe to say something about the boys’ relationship, but to be honest, even Ibe doesn’t really know the extent of it. 

“Friendship is the most likely one,” Ibe says, unscrewing the lens from his camera and sliding it into its rightful compartment before sticking the camera in as well. The zipper easily slides closed despite the bag being more than five years old. “I’m not sure how fast youth nowadays can fall in love.” 

“Probably not as fast as a _week,”_ Max says. He looks a bit distraught, brows coming in at the mention of the word “love.” “I mean, if Ash has a thing for Eiji, maybe he’ll open up to him faster and make our work easier, but I’m not sure if Eiji will agree to digging up information about his boyfriend for us… especially since it’s a past Ash clearly doesn’t want to talk about.” 

Hoisting a bag up to his shoulder, Ibe grabs the other one, offering it to Max who accepts. 

“You’re awfully calm about this, Shunichi.” 

The photographer grips the strap on his bag, a smile masking his thoughts. _You are only saying that because you haven’t seen me struggle with the boy for the past month and a half._ And if there’s anything Ibe doesn’t want to do, it’s to mess with Eiji’s personal life when he doesn’t need to. 

He doesn’t want to become subject to Eiji’s angsty self for another week. 

So he decides to evade the topic for now.

“Jessica invited me out to drink tonight.” 

Max bristles at his ex-wife’s name. 

“Did you do something again?” 

“Um…” Swallowing, Max averts his eyes, nervously scratching the back of his neck. “I may or may not have snuck in the house to see Michael again last night.” 

Ibe raises a brow. 

“Okay, maybe I’ve been doing it every single day for the past week and a half.”

“Ever since I came back, she has been complaining about you.”

Max winces. “Sorry about that.” 

“But it means she still cares about you, doesn't it? When you quit your job as a journalist because your company wanted you to suddenly drop that case on Ash even though they knew how important it has been to you for years, Jessica supported you,” Ibe says, recounting that time where he could barely speak English and bumped into Max by chance. 

The two clicked, and after having a couple of drinks together, Max ended up hauling Ibe’s drunk self to his house rather than leaving him in some random hotel the man probably wouldn’t remember ever even stepping foot into. The next morning, Ibe literally apologized about a hundred times, stumbling over his English for a minute or two before resorting to Japanese when his brain couldn’t process the situation anymore.

“You started coming back too late, stayed overnight at the agency, neglected her calls and texts, never went to pick Michael up from school or practice—” The list went on and on and on. “But she still gave you plenty of chances to redeem yourself—to act like her husband and not like someone who only came home when it was convenient for him. You didn’t take that chance.” 

Everything is so painfully true that Max can’t even deny a single word of it. 

“To be honest, Max—and I am your friend—but, if I were her, I wouldn’t keep on complaining about a man I don’t care about to my friends.” Ibe pauses. “In fact, I wouldn’t continue renting a house that is obviously too big for two people. I wouldn’t neglect to change my telephone number. I wouldn’t still tell my son stories about how good of a father my husband actually is despite him being—” Ibe clears his throat, pardoning himself before saying: “—an ‘asshole.’” Shrugging, he looks pointedly at Max whose eyes have grown to the size of saucers. “Some people become very honest with you when they are drunk.” 

“I just—“ Max has to divert his gaze elsewhere, fingers threading together. “I didn’t know.”

“That is exactly your problem.”

“And do you know what yours is, Ibe-san?” Eiji is marching straight up to Ibe and Max, having finished changing. His round eyes are pulled flat and accusatory. “Why didn’t you tell Ash to stop laughing when I looked at you?”

Ibe blinks. “Because he is good for you.”

 _“Good for me?”_ Eiji repeats, incredulous. It must be his extreme complex about his childish features that is spurring this burst of mild anger. Jabbing his finger Ash’s way, Eiji growls, “Ibe-san, I respect you, but does Ash _look_ like a vitamin to you?” 

“More like a snack,” a crew member mutters.

Ash’s blond head bobs up, curious, as he starts to make his way toward the commotion, and Blanca actually has the audacity to snort at the sentence and the crew member’s comment.

When Eiji throws a nasty glare at the one who spoke up, she turns away in a hurry, rushing up to help someone else roll up the set’s paper background.

“Dear god, and I thought he was actually turning out to be someone good,” Eiji says, pouting as his dark hair falls forward, the thick locks all over his forehead. There’s a faint flush across his face, and Ibe notices that his eyes are a little teary, red rimming the sides. Blanca’s eyes linger on Eiji for a second longer than usual. “He even apologized the first time he misread my age.” 

“Aw, Ei-chan, I’m sorry if I offended you,” Ash says. “It’s just that what Shorter said has been getting to me. You’re actually pretty cute with that face of yours.” 

“But I don’t _want_ to look cute.”

Ibe opens his mouth to settle the situation, but Max interrupts him before he can even say the first word. 

“Are you two dating?”

Eiji screws up his face, confused at why Max is asking the question in the first place while Ash has to clear his throat, face flushing slightly as he denies it. “Huh?” 

He had his eyes shut when Max first brought the inquiry on the floor, so he never saw the split-second embarrassment that flashed past Ash’s face, but Ibe did. 

“Shunichi told me Ash took you out the night you two met, then a week ago on a tour through NYC.”

“Yeah, on a _tour,”_ Ash emphasizes, crossing his arms. “To go sightseeing because he didn’t have anything better to do on that day. Besides, Ibe was the one to request I take Eiji out on the first day.”

“When someone takes you out, does that mean you’re dating them?” 

Ibe is actually surprised. “Ei-chan, you don’t know what a dating someone is? Or what a date is?”

He makes a face, narrowing his eyes. He looks overly agitated that Ibe is really starting to worry. “I do. I’m just not that interested in the subject, so I never talked about it with anyone before.” 

“Then, wouldn't you agree that Ash has already taken you on a date twice already?” It’s Max who pipes up, trying to push the conversation towards the way he originally wanted to take it. Ash shoots daggers at him.

But Eiji doesn’t even follow. “But when you’re dating, you have to _like_ the person.” 

“Yes.”

“And Ash _definitely_ doesn’t feel that way towards me.”

Max hesitates for a moment but eventually says what’s on his mind. “Well, towards him, how do you feel?”

“Comfortable?” Eiji peers at Ash who immediately shifts his gaze away from him, but Eiji only comes closer, even lifting himself a few centimeters up to gaze directly into Ash’s face. “Irritated, sometimes. Wait, no, probably _more_ than sometimes.”

Blanca puts a finger up, smiling. “So, like a married couple, right?” 

Ash chokes.

“Also,” Blanca continues, the pleasant smile still on his face. “Is it my imagination, or is Eiji very clearly and visibly drunk, but none of you have noticed yet?”

The lightbulb goes off Ibe’s head the moment he mentions it, and Ash’s eyes widen. Eiji attempts to shove him back, demanding a divorce. “It’s Nadia,” he says quietly, not even flinching when Eiji starts punching at his chest. “It’s her _fucking_ cousin.”

Holding both of Eiji’s wrists together, he drags him off with him, voice strained yet furious as he calls for Shorter’s sister. “Nadia, didn’t I tell you to get me when that little piece of shit fucks up again?”

Ibe’s blinks. _“Who?”_

“Sing,” Blanca clarifies. “He’s a bit of a troublemaker, and Nadia has vowed to reform him, though I don’t think it’s working well. Apparently, he pulls stuff like this whenever she interferes with his… activities and embarrasses him.” He taps his chin, eyes rolling up to the ceiling in thought. “I think he’s been filling plastic bottles with vodka, thinking it’ll get her fired at her job, but she surprisingly can take alcohol very well.”

“O-oh…” Ibe pales a bit.

“And don’t worry about Ash; he gets worked up like that sometimes, but he’s harmless. I’m actually impressed he quit his swearing for a while now ever since you two came to the agency, though I guess it still slips out sometimes.”

“I… I see.” Ibe has always had an open mind about people and issues, giving people the benefit of the doubt and always looking at their better assets rather than dwelling on the negatives, but sometimes when he’s not the only one involved, he just wants to drop everything and run away. 

Max nudges his side, brows raised. “Are you alright?” 

“Yes,” Ibe says, voice faint as he watches Nadia angrily fish her phone out of her pocket and start yelling into it in Chinese. “I’m fine.” _At least, I believe I am._

If anything, Ibe can hardly believe that Eiji is the same kid he witnessed on the field, shoulders slumped forward as if the world shoved an impossible loss onto his back. He couldn’t even lift his pole, much less run and vault himself over the other side that was waiting for him. 

He lost a lot of weight within that short period of time, couldn’t sleep without pills, refused to go to school for the rest of the year. Ibe knew that without the leniency and understanding of his professors towards Eiji and his situation, the boy perhaps wouldn’t even have been able to pass any of his classes. 

But now that he’s looking better, being able to show a range of emotions across his face, going out with Ash whenever... _agreeing_ to shoot this kind of campaign, Ibe wonders if he even has to worry anymore.

He can’t say he’s fully free from his concerns, but maybe Eiji _is_ all better now. 

And if not, well, then Ibe knows he’s going to be as long as he’s in the company of the people around him.

He lets out a long sigh to which Max lifts his brows at.

_It will be okay._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading.~


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He still feels like he’s in hell—has always felt the fires close to him, the flames singing the hair on his arms, teasing his skin with burns that hurt more than anything else, but maybe it’ll change. Maybe he’s allowed to let himself to forget that he’ll never be able to escape from that place. 
> 
> A placebo is better than nothing, after all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A later post; sorry! I wrote one scene right after publishing chapter three but had no direction to go off of, so left the rest until the last moment. Thank you for waiting. ♡♡♡

Yut-Lung Lee lounges back against a meridienne sofa, fingers combing through the thick locks of his hair. The black strands are stark against the pale white of his skin, slipping through the gaps of his fingers like silk. 

When he shifts onto his side, head propped up with a hand, his robe slides off a shoulder, his figure barely covered by the fabric anymore. But to be honest, he prefers it this way. He doesn’t like feeling confined and wearing straight-laced clothing like the tailored suits his brothers wear is something he would never do. 

It’s already been a few months since he moved out of the hellhole of a place they tried to keep him in. His brothers promised him the freedom to live wherever he wanted, but it wasn’t to say that Yut-Lung would also be granted privacy and complete isolation from his family. 

They still keep tabs on him, force him to work for their agency. Do the underhanded things their boring faces could never do.

Yut-Lung is alone, but he can still feel the fetters locked around his ankles, the leash made of steel around his throat. Sometimes, he’ll touch the area, fingers grazing across the dragon tattoo he received when he was barely ten. 

The Lee family claims that it’s a symbol of his affiliation to them; that he should be honored and proud to carry such blood in his veins. But the reality is that it’s a reminder that he belongs to them and that he’ll never be able to sever that bond.

Yut-Lung was _born_ to be possessed by them, _born_ to be used. 

At least he doesn’t deny that fact anymore. It was tiring to feign innocence. It gave him no source of happiness—no glamorized _bliss._ The only thing he got while lying to himself all day long was incessant torture. That and a whole goddamn laundry list of other bothersome feelings and vile memories. 

He swirls the glass of wine in his hand, watching as the ruby liquid coats the inside with the color before sliding down, white transparent again. 

His fingers tighten around the stem, wishing it would crack in half, imagining the throats of his brothers snapping just as easily, blood spilling across the wooden floorboards of the house, all of them stacked up one by one, dead. 

He’s sick of calling himself a Lee, sick of listening to his brothers spew bullshit out of their mouths as if every single word is a pearl Yut-Lung should take with the utmost of care.

“Fuck that,” he mutters underneath his breath, almost slamming his glass of wine back down on the coffee table in front of him. It elicits a loud clacking sound that makes him flinch. He hasn’t been good with noise like that for a while. Not since his brother decided to kill his mother once his father was out of the way. So much for valuing blood relations. 

At least he won’t have to deal with them today.

Apparently, he was supposed to have a shoot with that guy Ash Lynx, but his brothers suddenly called it off, saying he didn’t need to go. 

The news sounded suspicious at first, and Yut-Lung first wondered if his eldest brother, Wang-Lung had some kind of scheme running through his mind, but the boy could care less. As long as it doesn’t concern him, those horrible excuses of human beings can do whatever they want. 

Besides, Ash didn’t leave the best impression the last time they met. 

They greeted each other formally enough, each with a practiced smile on their face, hands clasped together. But then the moment Yut-Lung started chatting with Blanca, maybe getting a little too close, Ash came right between them and said in front of five-hundred guests: “Isn’t he a bit too old for you, _little girl?”_

It wasn’t Yut-Lung’s intention to chase after the man—just to cozy up to him since his brothers demanded him to do so, but that lynx just popped out of nowhere, jade eyes sharp, the deceptive dazzling smile on his face more than enough to make Yut-Lung’s blood simmer.

Ash could’ve stabbed Yut-Lung through his right eye with a skewer, malice blazing behind the action, and it would’ve been better. Anything would’ve been better than to see that fake grin on his face while the people around him turned to stare, eyes plastered onto him, near-baseless opinions already forming in their heads.

Yut-Lung hates it when people do that to him.

He hates people like that. 

But then that meant he probably hates ninety-nine percent of the world, and that out of the seven point five million inhabitants of it, he _loathes_ himself the most. 

If he could kill himself, he would, but the satisfaction his brothers would get out of it is the only thing that prevents him from committing the act.

So what if they take advantage of his face and body and leech off of him for money and good relations with clients and partners?

All that anger Yut-Lung harbors inside of his pitch-black soul and heart is what drives him to continue living. Because it’s one more step closer to getting what he ultimately wants.

He just doesn’t know how to go about doing it yet.

After staring at the leftover wine on the coffee table, Yut-Lung stands, lids lowering for a second as he straightens, pulling his gown properly over his body, re-tying the knot just below his navel. It’s done with grace that can’t be taught or learned; something about him has always been sensitive to movement. Nothing about him is rough but the words at his tongue and the thoughts swirling in his mind. 

People could get drunk off the way he moved, intoxicated just by glancing at the swooping nature of his body, the softness he doesn’t want, the delicate bones of his wrists, the perfect dip of his Cupid’s bow, the spun-silk of his hair.

And Yut-Lung knows this, comprehends the kind of effect he emulates.

The only one who hasn’t fallen for it, turned the other cheek at his activities, or been seduced without having been approached is that boy called Ash Lynx from that party a while ago.

The idea makes Yut-Lung frown, and he stops for a moment, turning his head slightly to stare at the crystal glass, watching the way the light from the sliver of undrawn curtains hit it perfectly at its lip, colors splashed across the white stucco walls, all over hardwood paneling and the overdyed rug at his feet.

Yut-Lungs eyes linger over the rug, dark irises threaded with violet sweeping over the vintage decor, how it was brought back to life just with fresh coats of dye. 

It’s a vivid combination of greens, and the hue that dominates is a jade—a jade so pretty that anyone would have a hard time looking away from it.

When the company’s designers were choosing furniture, this one must have caught their eye. More than the prosperity and goodwill of red is jade, the embodiment of preciousness was and goodness. 

The whole thing makes Yut-Lung laugh, the corners of his lips stretching into that wild grin he sometimes gets. It's ruining his passive façade, makes him out to be the monster he knows he is. And he hates feeling like this; abhors the way the underused muscles of his face ached whenever he would break out like this. 

Even now, his hands come up to his cheek, quivering fingers pressing down on the skin, the pain real when he feels it pulse underneath his flesh. 

But it truly is laughable. 

Sixteen, and he doesn’t even know how many times he’s been pushed to do something he didn’t want to do.

When is he going to grow up, muster enough courage, and do unto his brothers the way they have done unto him? They’ve maimed him multiple times already, the scarring not on his body, but in his mind.

Yut-Lung’s heart isn’t even on the table anymore. He’s stopped putting himself through it every time. The easiest way is to dissociate, focus on what his task is, try not to let his fingers twitch over to the cord in his hair or the velvet choker where a needle typically is.

Jade?

Preciousness and goodness?

He needs a fucking break.

Reaching over, he pulls the lip of the glass down, and it clinks as it hits the gold edge of the coffee table before rolling off. The wine spills across the rug, red soiling green—ruby tainting jade.

Blood across those pretty eyes, gold framing those lovely features, strands cutting into the pale of his skin, deep enough to draw that ruby red, let it well over and spill across a primed canvas.

Yut-Lung wants to see _blood._

Grabbing his phone from the counter, he leans against the marble top with his hip, nails tapping against the smoothed milky rock. 

Just one fissure and the whole thing would break and split in half, as easy as that.

Yut-Lung clicks on one of the few numbers on his contacts list and lifts the bright screen up and away from his face. 

“Yes?” The voice at the end is familiar. The only voice he’s had the displeasure of hearing for the past few weeks. “What is it that you want?”

The grin on Yut-Lung’s face widens just a little more. He swears his face is going to crack in half. 

His eldest brother’s formal speech towards someone he views as a pet dog is always something he can’t miss. _Would he be this artificially kind if he knows what is going through my mind? What has_ been _going through my mind?_

“Dear brother?” Yut-Ling twirls a long lock around his index finger, watching as the strands loop around and around as if they were thread on a winding spindle. “I made a small mess, could you ask someone to come and clean it up? That pretty jade rug you bought; it’s ruined.”

There’s a pause on the other line, a slight disconnect. Then, Wang-Lung answers, “Of course. Wait for the bell.”

“Oh, and…”

Another pause. “Yes?”

“You promised me one thing when I submitted to obedience.”

“And…?”

Yut-Lung lets the inky black stands slide off his finger. It slips past his shoulder before falling against his back. He would rather it be a whip.

“I want it now.” When he finally says it, it comes out a lot harsher than he intends, every word drawing out the low notes of his voice, dragging each syllable out until they hit the end of their octave, high and needy. Someone he once thought he had feelings for told him he has the prettiest voice—that they could reach ecstasy just by listening to it. But Yut-Lung can’t remember their face anymore, their smell or the feel of their body against his. 

In fact, the whole thought just passes through his mind like it was never there in the first place.

“There’s a boy I’ve been interested in; a mischievous little thing. He’s a relative of the Wongs—that family who has already broken all ties from us a couple of generations ago.” Yut-Lung mouths the name first before speaking, and it’s a curious one. He doesn’t know why any parent in their right mind would name their child after the characters that represent guilt.

“Sing Soo-Ling.”

-

Ash hasn’t been more flustered in his life.

He’s trying to keep his cool and calm poise, layer on that nonchalant mask he always has on his face whenever he doesn’t expect anything to happen, but it’s a little hard to do when someone is clinging to his side, plastered all over his body. And Ibe keeps stealing glances to the back, worry lines deepening with every passing minute, making his nerves stand more on an end. 

Sighing, Ash props his elbow up on the window, chin resting against the back of his hand. 

New York City is all he’s ever known for a good twelve years of his life. He can’t even remember what Cape Code looks like anymore; it’s all just a blur of sparkling waves and hazy afternoons, tall seagrass scraping against his legs up to his waist, the call of seagulls off in the distance. 

It sounds a whole lot more romantic when Ash imagines it, but he doesn’t want to remember it like that. It’s not a place he can look back to fondly, nor a place he _wants_ to reminisce about as if it’s the manifestation of his childhood nostalgia. 

That stuff is forgettable to him. In fact, he’d rather forget about every little piece of it than to let it dwell in the back of his mind where, one day, he might dig up more than just a few memories. More than he would like. 

“Shunichi, you’re going to get a neck cramp if you keep looking back at Eiji like that,” Max says from the front, fingers loosely circling the steering wheel as he pulls it to the right. 

The ride is the smoothest Ash has ever experienced, and he doesn’t know whether he should be impressed or not. Max always struck him as the kind of scatterbrained guy who would work on a messy desk and go home to a messy studio apartment. But over the years, Ash has learned that the man is a lot tidier than he seems… tidier than his relationships, at least. 

Ash has walked into one too many arguments he’s had over the phone, but they’ve lessened. He hasn’t heard Max stressed and hurt like that for a full six months. Which means he has either cut off all communication from the person he’s been fighting with or he has eventually succumbed to his fate.

“Ah, sorry.” Ibe sits forward, fingers folding together in his lap. 

He’s tall compared to all the other Asian men Ash has ever met in his life, but more… docile. And a lot more loyal, understanding, and kind. To be honest, Ibe kind of reminds Ash of a scruffy dog—the kind you probably wanted to keep by your side forever, but can’t because of the lifespan difference between human and pet. 

Ash drags a finger across the curtain of Eiji’s fringe, pulling the strands toward him and watching as each individual tuft falls back into place. It’s not exactly silky—more so coarse—but it feels nice. Like the type of hair you could run your fingers through endlessly and not worry about it losing volume. The kind you wanted to knot around your knuckles and each individual finger until the tangles swallowed them whole. 

The idea of it makes Ash blush almost immediately, and he drops his hand back into his lap, trying unsuccessfully to banish the thought away. 

His own strands were fine—locks that would slide in between someone’s fingers easily, but Eiji has the kind that’s just so _touchable._ To him, at least.

“Why did he think it was a good idea to chug down a random bottle?” Ash frowns. The images outside blur together as the traffic light turns green. “I mean, I know vodka is virtually tasteless if you don’t linger on the way it goes down, but the water obviously wasn’t his.” 

Max peers at him suspiciously from the front-view mirror.

“Not that I’ve ever had any,” Ash says. It’s clearly a lie, but he doesn’t have the energy, and he doesn’t really feel like covering it up anyway. As if he had any legal parents Max could call. “Shorter’s a bartender. He likes maundering about taste and texture and whatever.” 

“Well, Eiji _was_ angry with you,” Max says, glancing back briefly before merging into one lane. “Some people cool down by drinking water; only, his was unknowingly vodka instead.” 

Jaw tightening, Ash draws in his brows. “I’m seriously going to kill that brat if he pulls anything else.” 

Silence draws the conversation to a close before Ash speaks again, sliding his eyes away from view when he starts. “By the way, I heard Eiji is a track athlete. So why is he so…”—Ash’s gaze sweeps over Eiji, taking note on how his body didn’t quite fill out his clothes. Like he was always wearing a size or two sizes too large. And even now, Ash can feel the jut of Eiji’s collarbone against his shoulder, the hollow of his stomach even when he isn’t breathing in.— _”...small?”_

“That is…” Ibe scratches his chin, and his mouth presses together in a straight line. Ash already senses it’s a sensitive matter that probably still somewhat plagues Eiji and the people around him who know of it. “That is something you should ask Eiji yourself. Or wait until he tells you.”

“Okay.”

Hearing this just makes Ash want to hold him a little closer, tuck him under his wing, never let him get eaten up by whatever it is he’s struggling in.

There aren’t a whole lot of people who Ash trusts completely, but he somehow is certain that Eiji is someone worth that. That he deserves every little bit Ash is able to give away despite how many times his past proved that assurance in someone only leads to betrayal in the sort that never met the scar across his back fade. 

It’s honestly a weird feeling to Ash—this wholehearted faith in someone, especially for someone he just met, but it feels fine for once to step back and close his eyes.

He still feels like he’s in hell—has always felt the fires close to him, the flames singing the hair on his arms, teasing his skin with burns that hurt more than anything else, but maybe it’ll change. Maybe he’s allowed to let himself to forget that he’ll never be able to escape from that place. 

A placebo is better than nothing, after all.

The car jumps over a bump in the road, and Eiji’s body shifts, head lolling forward for a moment before Ash reaches over to let his cheek rest against his shoulder. 

Eiji murmurs something indecipherable underneath his breath, arms tightening around one of Ash’s. 

“Thank you for taking care of him, Ash,” Ibe says, eyes slanting back to look at him without fully turning his head. “He has opened up so easily towards you when before, he was so unwilling to speak to anyone at all.”

“Oh, it’s nothing.” There’s a trace of a smile on Ash’s lips. “He’s always so genuine and treats everyone with respect no matter their age or status. It’s… straight up refreshing and god,”—he lowers his eyes, forcing the breath out of his lungs—“I just really appreciate it when someone does that. It’s easy to tailor your attitude based on who you’re speaking to, but it’s like the idea of it doesn’t even register to him. He formal when he wants to be, and casual when he feels like it, and I like that part of him a lot.”

“He is easy to talk to.”

“Right.” Ash nods, but a small chuckle escapes with it. “Only when you haven’t already pissed him off, that is.”

“I agree,” Max says. “I always feel like he’ll bite my head off if I say the wrong thing. Already experienced that plenty.”

“Haven’t we all?”

The car shakes with stifled laughter as Ash hides a grin behind his fist, the smile so wide it feels like his face might break. He’s only felt like this with Shorter, and though this is a change he never thought he would experience, it’s a good one. A damn good one that thaws him, warms him up more than he would ever openly admit. 

He’s happy, but at the same time, his heart tightens at the smile fades a bit, the corners of his mouth falling. 

Because he knows it’s only something temporary that won’t last, even if he wants it to.

-

When Eiji wakes up, he wants to go back to sleep. And he actually contemplates it for longer than necessary, lying in bed groggy, lids heavy like someone had painted fifteen coats of lead across his lashes.

Whoever put him in bed tucked the duvet around his body, creating this warm cocoon he just wants to snuggle back into, but he also knows it’s somehow already night, silvery moonlight and colorful city lights spilling into his room from the crack of his window blinds. It’s almost blinding to him, and he has to squint through it in order to see. 

Slowly flipping the sheets off of him, he slides his legs off the mattress and attempts to stand, but fatigue clings onto him, the effects of it making him stumble a bit, vertigo setting the room into a merry go ‘round. It might as well have been spinning because Eiji can’t even walk properly. Every single time he tries to put one foot in front of the other, he ends up slipping from lack of strength or literally just can’t focus.

It takes him a full few minutes to make it to the kitchen, hand trailing across the wall of the short hallway before entering the foyer. Ibe is sitting next to Max, his wooden bar stool turned to the side to face him. Max leans cross the countertop with his elbows, voice faint as he responds to something Ibe just said.

Eiji has to stand there for a moment or two before finally stepping away from the wall, unsteady legs wobbling all the way to the fridge where a row of bottled waters is stocked up inside along with a couple of other things.

He offers a brief greeting, nodding to the two men as they put a cessation to their discussion. And after grabbing a water, Eiji plops down heavily onto the closest seat next to Max, cracks the bottle open, and tips it all the way back, chugging it until he’s sucking on air.

The bottle crinkles underneath his grip, plastic contorting easily. Eiji has to set it down gingerly, balancing it so the twisted bottom doesn’t fall off the counter. He doesn’t realize both Max and Ibe are staring at him until after he’s done.

Offering an apologetic smile, he points at the empty bottle. “I just… was really thirsty for some reason. Had this slightly bitter taste on my tongue too.”

“Is your head okay?” Ibe’s brows are pulled in, hand against the edge of the counter, fingers digging into it as if he wants to fly over to Eiji’s side immediately. He probably does, given the fact that Eiji just downed a one-liter bottle of water in about ten seconds flat.

The liquid swishes inside his empty stomach. He hasn’t eaten anything today but breakfast, but somehow, the lack of sustenance doesn’t really bother him. He’s not hungry.

“Yeah,” Eiji says. “I’m just tired. Figures, since I slept the entire day away again.”

Ibe throws a dubious glance at Max who shrugs and says, “He’s young. Usually, the effects really hit you until you pass your early twenties.”

Eiji blinks. They’re skirting around the issue again. “The effects of what?”

Ibe’s eyes slide back over to Max.

Ignoring the obvious _”told you so”_ inked all over Ibe’s face, Max turns his attention to Eiji. His eyes dart away for a moment like he doesn’t know what to say, but he falls back into the conversation, slipping a hand around the back of his head while he does so.

It’s a gesture Eiji is becoming well acquainted with; Max always did it whenever he was nervous or if he didn’t want to talk about something. Even if Eiji isn’t fully alert, he can still tell.

“What do you remember from today?” 

Eiji actually thinks for a moment, head tilting to one side. His messy locks fall into his eyes, thick black obscuring chocolate irises. “There was a photoshoot with Ash, and the model he was going to work with bailed at the last second.”

Max leans forward slightly. “And?”

“He made me angry by commenting on my… face,” Eiji continues. “I drank a bottle of water, but for some reason, it just made me feel _worse._ Like my emotions were all out of control.” Pausing, he presses his lips together, gaze lowering. “But, to be honest, I don’t really remember what exactly happened—just knew I felt that way.”

“Hm. I see.”

“What?” Eiji tries prying something out of Ibe, eyes boring into his, hand against the wooden countertop. He somewhat knows where both of them are getting at, but there’s something else they haven’t mentioned that has to do with him. Eiji can only guess, but they were probably discussing it before he walked in on them. “Did I do something… weird?”

Max glances at Ibe, but the photographer just shakes his head violently, mouthing a “no.” But with or without permission, Max just goes ahead with the truth. “It wasn’t water you drank, Eiji. It was vodka.” 

There’s a blank expression on Eiji’s face. He doesn’t quite follow. 

“And then you promptly demanded Shunichi’s reason for not yelling at Ash to get his act together, screamed—in total frustration and anger, by the way— _”Does Ash look like a vitamin to you?”_ and continued to lament over the fact that you didn’t actually really know what a date is, contemplating if Ash has already taken you out on one.”

At this point, Ibe has already turned fully away, back facing the two as he silently decides how he’s going to mollify Eiji.

“You also demanded a divorce from him,” Max adds.

“Okay.”

Ibe spins around, gaping. “What? Really? You are okay with this?”

Shrugging, Eiji traces the choppy wood grain of the countertop, nail dragging along the dark lines. The varnished top prevents him from running his finger over its bumpy texture. He’s always preferred a good stain and light finish over something as glossy and thick as varnish. “I’m supposedly a lightweight and embarrass both myself and the people around me when I’m drunk. So I guess I just won’t ever drink to save me from all the impending trouble.” His eyes flick up, the pupils touching the top of his upper waterline. “Now, what do you really want to talk about?”

Max looks surprised as he always does toward Eiji, his expression now mirroring the one on Ibe’s face. 

A moment of silence passes between them, the muted sound of cars pulling into the parking underlying the music of the night. Then, Max regains himself, pulling at the collar of his shirt as he licks his lips, throat clearing. 

Eiji is surprised he still hasn’t popped the top few buttons open; he was off from work, after all, hanging out with a friend and discussing personal matters.

“Have… have you thought about what I talked to you a week ago?” He asks, voice hushed. “About Ash? About his previous agency and about Golzine, the man behind all the sex trafficking that’s going on in it?”

“Yeah, I have.” Eiji rests his chin on his open palm, sitting forward in his seat. When he sighs, it’s a long one that breaks through him, drags some of the exhaustion from his bones. He hasn’t mentioned it because he didn’t want to talk about it too soon, but it’s about time he did. 

After this month with Ash, Ibe doesn’t know if he’s going to continue working as a photographer for the agency. Eiji is sure he _wants_ to, but Ash couldn’t possibly work with them for the entire year that they are going to be here; his agent and the director of NK Agency would probably want him working with higher-profile photographers, to build a steady base of contacts on their list, expand Ash’s familiarity with other people. Because that is part of what Ash does as a model. 

Deeper bonds and personal partnerships aren’t in the job description; flexibility, commitment, and confidence are.

And this thought, coupled with the others he has preach run through his head countless times—more than he would like to admit—sways him a little.

No matter who is going to be subject to hurt during this entire process, maybe that bit of it is better than letting hundreds of children become dominated by a disgusting paraphilic man whose heart is imbued with greed and lust.

Eiji just doesn’t want anyone to hurt like he did or go through the same he’ll Ash was forced through. Maybe it’s the bit of alcohol that’s still in his system, but he sort of wants to cry. 

It comes out of nowhere, but he feels it well up inside of him, tighten his throat, burn at the back of his eyes. And it’s sad that it still feels familiar to him. That when his vision warbles in front of him, it’s something he doesn’t even flinch at. Because screw gender roles and being typically insensible like the man society expects him to be. 

There was a time in his life when Eiji was really hard on himself for letting everything happen to him. He was _so_ ashamed of not being able to do anything, for dissociating, for having been found at his state. That despite the fact that he could have potentially pushed the weight off of him, he just let it happen. 

And he’s tried really hard to come into terms with everything—to tell himself it’s not _his_ fault and that not struggling the entire time isn’t him _asking_ for it.

He beat himself up a lot. 

He was really mean to himself.

And he really wishes he _wasn’t._ Because none of that was welcomed—it never was, and he never consented. 

_”God.”_ Digging his palms into his closed eyes, Eiji bites his bottom lip, stifling the sob that desperately wants to tear another hole through his heart. He’s better, but it still hurts. It’s still _tangible_ , and no matter how much time will pass—no matter the good things that come to him—, he might never be able to move on. 

He can’t keep on ignoring it for eternity—only skimming at the surface and chickening out when someone tries to make him open up completely. That is the reality he’s facing, just as straightforward and chock full of emotions as being drunk.

“Ei-chan.” The stool scrapes across the kitchen floor, and Ibe is at Eiji’s side, hand on his shoulder, the other one rubbing his back. He’s saying comforting words in Japanese, voice low, but Eiji barely processes them.

But he slowly calms down, the tremors near gone, the ache in his heart subsiding although a new one throbs at the back of his head from crying so much. And when he feels better, he gracelessly wipes his face with his sleeves and sniffles. His cheeks are probably flushed, eyes red and puffy, skin pale from the burnout of today, but everything is a lot less bad than his state ten minutes ago.

Eiji wants a hug, but the one he wants one from isn’t here right now. 

He lets out a breath of air, blowing his bangs up and mostly away from his face. Then, he turns and looks at Ibe who seems at a loss for what to do next.

“I’m okay,” Eiji says, and it sounds like the most transparent lie ever. His words shake, gravelly at the end because of how raw his throat is. “I just… need an Ibuprofen or something.” He stops for a moment. “But I drank, so I don’t actually think that’s a good—” 

Max digs his wallet out of his back pocket, flipping the leather case open before pulling out a whole row of Advil. He pops two out of the silver foil before handing it to Eiji. Ibe is already coming back from the fridge, setting another bottled water in front of Eiji. 

“Americans take them like candy,” Max says. “You’ll be fine.”

“O-oh. Okay.” Eiji puts them in his mouth before taking a swig of water, gulping it all down. He never took medicine often in Japan—only melatonin for his insomnia, so painkillers work almost too well on him. 

Both Max and Ibe resemble EMTs on standby, even so much as jerking toward him, hands fluttering up when Eiji starts speaking again. 

“So, um, about Ash—”

“Eiji, you don’t have to do it if you don’t want to,” Max assures. “We would appreciate your help, but if it’s going to compromise your health, we don’t want to push you into it. And…” Looking away, he presses his lips together. “...it _is_ delicate information. Going against someone as powerful as Golzine is risky, and I don’t want to jeopardize your safety at all.”

“Ash is a friend,” Eiji says, meeting Ibe’s gaze before swiveling his eyes back to Max’s. “I won’t pry him for information or snoop through his personal things. If he wants to tell me, he’ll do so on his own volition whenever he’s ready to.”

Max raises a brow. “You’re one-hundred percent sure you want to do this?”

Eiji doesn’t want to gain Ash’s trust only to shatter it or only curry favor in him for the sole purpose of extorting information out of him. He wants the process to be completely willing—talks of the past saved for late nights or early mornings when the sky outside is still dark enough for them to believe that the whole world is asleep and it’s only them who are allowed to listen to each other’s conversations. 

But he also knows he can’t tell Ash about Max and Ibe, because Eiji doesn’t know how Ash would react. After all the time Max has devoted into the case, he doesn’t want it to be for nothing.

If Ash sees Eiji in the same way Eiji sees him, he’ll understand when Golizine is arrested. 

“I’m in.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!~


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “This is the moment where you’re supposed to agree and fire back with something smug and annoying."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the late update! I got caught up with things and was also stuck halfway through the chapter, but I hope it turned out okay in the end. ~
> 
> Also, I don't think I'll be able to stick to strict Monday updates anymore. I have classes starting on Friday and want to take some time actually planning a chapter before writing it, so I think it's safe to say I'll probably do biweekly updates. Hope you all will be okay with that. (': If anything, I'll just try and publish whenever I finish a chapter.

If Eiji is being honest— _completely_ honest and not just trying to denounce that widely-known advice that “letting it all out” is the best medicine there is next to sleep, crying his eyes out yesterday didn’t really help at all. The only thing it gave him was insomnia, crippling fatigue, red-rimmed eyes, and a horrible complexion. In other words, he looks like he just got ran over by a bus, and he doesn’t really want to go to the agency and catch himself in one of their ceiling-to-floor mirrors. 

Eiji doesn’t really care about his own outward appearance too much, but he would be lying if he says he’s okay with rolling right out of bed in his oversized pajamas and waltzing outside in worn slippers without even splashing water over his face. 

Once he pulled an all-nighter without even changing his uniform and tried dragging his haggard body out the door, but his sister practically pulled him back in by the collar, forcing him to take a quick shower before manhandling him into a fresh uniform and combing out his hair. She’d even gone ahead and applied concealer to the bruised half-moon stamps underneath his eyes.

When he walked into his first class late, the teacher didn’t even write him up because she was too busy gushing about how nice he looked to the whole class who were just as surprised as she was. Obviously, they were all disappointed when he showed up the next day without makeup, wrinkled clothes, and untamed locks. Eiji can’t spend more than ten minutes getting ready in the morning because he just _hates_ it. 

The primping and smoothing and ironing and powdering wasn’t his thing, and it still isn’t.

So the fact that he barely looks like a living human being even _after_ trying to be presentable is annoying. How do people walk out looking like they just waltzed out of a magazine? And with no effort at all? Eiji can’t even begin to wrap his head around the idea. 

“Hey there, Ei-chan.” Ash sends him a dazzling smile, bright and cheery as he slings an arm over Eiji’s shoulder. He’s dressed casually in a tee and jeans but still looks so _pretty._

Squinting, Eiji groans, ducking his head down to conceal half his face with his long fringe. “Goodness, Ash. Stop being so perfect.” The words slip out of his mouth without him even processing what it means, but instead of Eiji getting flustered, it’s Ash who almost jumps back, eyes wide as subtle pink touches his cheeks. 

“This is the moment where you’re supposed to agree and fire back with something smug and annoying,” Eiji says, eyes flickering up to Ash.

“W-well…” Ash struggles with coming up with something, nervous laughter filling the silence. 

“Though, to be honest, I’m kind of surprised you reacted like that,” Eiji continues, eyes sliding away from Ash’s. He’s technically supposed to be helping Ibe with his equipment, but the photographer is busy giving direction to someone from the crew. Eiji recognizes the brown-haired guy who basically cast him into the shoot the day before as a sub. Alex. “I thought you would be used to it. People calling you perfect and all.”

“I mean, they _do._ A lot,” Ash says, “But it’s about the shot, not me. It’s about some image they’re going to plaster over a department or retail store, a short video they’re using as a campaign ad—stuff like that.”

“Hm.” Eiji nods. He always thought there is a disconnect between a model and the superficial picture they’re being used to create. Hearing Ash confirm it solidifies the idea in his mind, but it doesn’t make him feel any better, though. 

There isn’t any satisfaction in being right; if anything, Eiji just feels… a little guilty. Like he touched on something he probably shouldn’t have even if it was a legitimate thought he had at the tip of his tongue. 

“I didn’t mean it that way, by the way,” he says. “It was… something that slipped out. No one is perfect, but you’re pretty perfect to me, Ash. You’re annoying at times, but, I don’t know… I guess it’s growing on me.” Eiji pulls at a lock of hair, stretching it down over his right eye before letting it spring back up in a half-curl across his forehead. There’s a trace of a smile on his lips that he offers to Ash. “It sort of gives me a chance to tease you.”

Ash’s arms snake forward, his hand cupping Eiji’s face as he turns his face toward him. He’s squinting at Eiji, jade eyes sharp. 

Eiji’s own hand comes up, trying to pry Ash away, but the boy doesn’t budge.

“You were so morose when I first met you like you had a chip in your shoulder, and then again this morning you have this expression on your face like you’d rather melt onto the ground and lie there for eternity, but now you’re fine?” 

“What do you want me to be? Moody all day long?”

“No.” Taking back his hand, Ash shrugs, shoving his hands into his pockets. “I was stating a fact, that’s all.”

“Abstract ideas like emotions are usually seen as subjective,” Eiji argues. “You can’t really point them out as a fact.” 

“Sure thing, but I know the difference between angsty Eiji and soft Eiji.” 

“Mm-hm, and you should know a pissed Blanca when you see one.” Raising his brows, Alex jerks his thumb back to where Blanca is standing, arms crossed together with a pleasant smile on his face. But Eiji can tell that it’s somewhat forced, a mask for him to wear when, in reality, the man is actually angry. _Very._ “The shoot started two hours ago. Not only did you completely ignore Blanca when he asked you to get ready, but you evaded Nadia, ran away from the crew, and disappeared god knows where until Eiji showed up.” Alex purses his lips together, throwing Ash a pointed look. “If the photographer wasn’t Ibe, you would have been screwed, Ash.” 

“But I was worried about Ei-chan,” Ash says, pulling Eiji a centimeter closer. Eiji has already stopped trying to find a way out of Ash’s grasp. “He didn’t arrive when Ibe did.” 

“And he had his reasons, as we all sometimes do,” Alex responds, hand clamping down on Ash’s shoulder. “If you’d rather have Blanca come over, I’d be happy to call to him for you.” The fact that he says this with a completely passive and straight face, voice almost monotonous makes him a lot scarier than he seems.

“Come on, that old man can’t touch me.” 

Turning his heel, Alex tucks a pen behind his ear before cupping both his hands around his mouth. “Hey, Blanca?” His voice cuts through the entire room, loud and clear.

But Eiji wants Ash to stop acting like a child during work. It’s not good for his career or good for the stress levels of the people around him. So he takes the opportunity to grab the front of Ash’s shirt and haul him over to Nadia before Alex can say anything else.

“Stop being a pain, Ash,” he hisses. “This is your job, not voluntary work. So do it.” Eiji points inside the prep room where Nadia is waiting, and Ash complies, shutting the door quietly behind him. 

The mood of the room shifts slightly, a new buzz going through it as the old one disappears. It’s a change Eiji is sensitive enough to feel, but it somehow doesn’t really affect him in the way it usually does. Maybe he just got used to the environment enough not to care too much when something that minor changes. 

He walks back into position with Ibe, crouching down to neatly arrange spare equipment back into the bag. When he’s done, he glances up at Max, opening his mouth to ask something. 

“Oh, Eiji. Give me a sec, please.” 

“Of course.” 

Pulling out his phone, Max clicks on a contact before lifting the screen to his ear. “Yeah, head of HR? Charlie Dickinson? Remember that request for that odd job literally everyone on board voted we should have? I think I have someone for it.” He pauses, nodding. “Oh, you can’t recall? It’s a position for being ‘Ash’s Mother.’”

-

The shoot takes forever because it’s apparently for a fashion editorial by a magazine called _Porter,_ and Ash literally won’t shut up in between each shot, even so much as wandering over to Ibe whenever the photographer takes a break to click through the series of pictures he just took.

After spending a little over a full week in Ash’s company, Eiji understands that it’s just his way of getting rid of the initial tension in the air. Even if he’s used to his job, getting stared at, fussed over, and photographed hundreds of times can still bite at his nerves. 

Max never specified what type of model Ash is, but since he _is_ the face of the agency, Eiji suspects he basically does everything, and his schedule is packed during prime times every season. Spring just started, April inching its way toward them, so it’s no wonder that multiple designers and companies are trying to get a hold of him, requesting bookings and times, sending proposals and multiple concepts for projects and whatnot. 

It’s somewhat hectic, but the work dies down near the end of each month. At least Ash hasn’t had any location shots; everything has been done inside the agency’s building, conveniently enough. 

_“Ei-chan.”_

“Hm?” Eiji is making sure everything is in place before zipping up one of the camera bags and putting it with the others. Sometimes, he gets tired of carrying the same stuff to and from the apartment, but he needs to. Ibe leaves the apartment complex almost every evening after dinner to shoot, sometimes staying out for an entire afternoon to walk the streets he’s not familiar with or jumping into taxis and ask the drivers to take him to their favorite place.

Photography is his work, but it’s also his passion. Eiji doesn’t know how he can continuously look at the world through a glass lens, finger over the shutter, breath stilled. 

He takes over a hundred photos per day, clicks through each one to consider the shot, watches the picture as if its a living thing.

It’s a bit romantic though, maybe filled with wishful thinking. 

Ibe doesn’t seem like the type who wants to escape. He’s probably the kind of person who wants to live _in_ the moment, capture it forever—not take himself out of it as the photographer who is always outside of the frame. 

Eiji has never seen a single portrait of Ibe saved in any of his online files. It’s always a snapshot of a friend or acquaintance, a photo capturing the essence of a scene, the first crack of dawn, local events, the shadowed profiles and backs of strangers.

He has no clue what goes through Ibe’s mind when he decides to press down on that button or when his fingers turn the lens to focus on or blur out a scene, but it must be complete silence. A calming silence that converts something living into a still photograph. 

But each shot nevertheless looks alive—dynamic enough to live through it by gazing at it. 

Eiji is so lost in his thoughts that he doesn’t even notice when Ash bends down, head craning to the side to stare directly at his face. 

It’s the droplets of water that finally wrenches Eiji away from his musings. 

He brings a hand up, catching a drop of water, then another. And when his eyes slide up from the floor, meeting Ash’s, Eiji’s eyes widen. 

Ash is literally soaking wet, hair a few shades darker than its usual light blond pushed away from his forehead, the strands matted to his scalp, curling at the nape of his neck. He’s wearing a patterned silk shirt, the ties attached to the collar hanging loose on both sides and the top few buttons popped open. It’s tucked into a pair of tailored trousers that are also a sopping mess, the puddle underneath Ash widening with every second lost.

“Why are you here?” Eiji grabs his arm, hurrying over to the prep rooms. “You need to get changed. And why did you dunk yourself into the bath when you didn’t need to be fully immersed?” 

“‘Cause it feels weird to only be half wet,” Ash says, shrugging. He’s already undoing his shirt, peeling the fabric away from his body before tossing it on the ground. Letting out a frustrated noise, Eiji picks it up, looking around to figure out where it needs to go. He panics for a moment until a random crew member brings him a small bucket to temporarily put the clothes in. 

Ash starts undoing the zipper in his pants, fingers at the button, but Eiji pushes him behind the dressing area before he can take it off.

Nadia knocks on the door, a towel on her arm, and Eiji thanks her. He hands it to Ash, an arm curving around the curtain.

“You know, I don’t really mind if you look,” Ash says.

“I like respecting people’s privacy.” 

_“So_ polite.” 

“Thank you.”

“It wasn’t much of a compliment, Ei-chan. More of a lament.”

Fingers tightening, Eiji takes in a breath of air. Of all the little things he’s picked up on Ash, it’s that the boy doesn’t trust easily. He gets bored all the time, and values play over work. He’s elusive and somehow can deceive and convince people without even trying because of his natural charisma and pretty face. _So why is he so open to me, of all people?_

Eiji presses his lips together. He himself trusts Ash too, but it’s something compulsive he can’t control. The whole thing is wound up like some toy jack-in-the-box that is going to spring up on them when they least expect it, and Eiji hates surprises like that. 

“What?” Ash shoves the curtain aside, pulling his shirt over his head before tucking it into the waistband of his jeans. He grabs a jacket hanging off the wall, donning it before shoving his feet into boots. “Did I go too far?”

Shaking his head, Eiji tries pushing his thoughts away from later. “I didn’t understand, anyway. It’s fine.”

Ash looks like he wants to explain the entire thing, but lets it go in the end. “Okay.”

Grabbing the bucket of wet clothes, Eiji opens the door. “Let’s get back on set in case Blanca wants anything else.”

-

The fatigue is so deeply set in Eiji’s bones that he can hardly stand upright, body wavering. He’s tempted to lean against Ash but ultimately doesn’t.

Ibe told him to stay home for the day, saying that today’s shoot isn’t something too demanding, but Eiji couldn’t just idly lay in bed, limbs glued to the mattress, covers halfway on his body. He was tired— _so tired_ he felt like he might actually just close his eyes and never open them again—but his insomnia kept him from falling back asleep. 

So he’s been half-awake since four in the morning, half-dead, and not able to rest. When noon was almost about to roll over, Eiji didn’t want to sit out when the rest of the month is practically unscheduled for Ash, save a few easy gigs right before April, so he hauled himself up, out, and into a taxi. 

To hide his face from the public, he put on a mask and baseball cap, fringe swinging low over his eyes, but he had to take it all off before entering the agency so security wouldn’t be alerted. 

The slight buzz of energy within the room and lo-fi jazz playing in the background saved himself from straight-up passing out, but the exhaustion is hitting him again. Blanca is saying something, but the words don’t even register in Eiji’s mind. He already has to try a bit harder to pick up each word and process it, but in his state, the only thing he’d probably be able to understand is a few snippets of Japanese. 

“...you okay?”

“Oh.” Eiji’s eyes focus, seeing worried brown eyes. When his eyes slide over, Ash is peering at him with the same amount of concern. “Ibe-san.”

“Ei-chan, I told you to stay home.”

“Sorry, I just...” he lets out a sigh, and it’s so faint he wonders if anyone actually notices it. “...thought since this is the last formal shoot of the month, I should come.”

Ibe nods. “Yes, but your health always comes first. You haven’t been sleeping or eating much either.”

“I’ll take care of myself better.” They’re empty words Eiji always says, but he knows Ibe won’t be satisfied unless he acknowledges the problem. 

The truth is that he doesn’t know how to care for himself—he still hasn’t gotten back to the rhythm of who he was, but he’s trying to. He told himself he would multiple times, and he solidified the idea even more last night after talking to Max and Ibe about Ash.

“Good. Max and I have a few more things to discuss, so you can go back by yourself today.” Squeezing Eiji’s shoulder, Ibe looks pointedly at him. “Please take the time to rest. There are leftovers in the fridge, but let me know if you want or need anything else, okay?”

“Right.” Eiji offers him a weak smile. “Thank you, Ibe-san.”

“Rough night?” It’s Ash who asks, brow raised as he tucks his hands into his pockets.

“Yeah. Haven’t been at my best for a while, actually.”

“I’ve noticed.”

“You have?”

“Well…” Shifting his weight to one side, Ash glances down at the floor briefly before meeting Eiji’s eyes again. “You were really touchy when we first met. Sensitive. And not saying it’s a bad thing—just that I know that when someone’s not at a good point in their life, it’s easy to fall back. Become _salty as fuck_ —more than your usual self, if you know what I mean.”

“Hm.” The corner of Eiji’s mouth quirks up. “There’s a lot of different ways someone has described me when I acted like that, but _’salty as fuck’_ is a new one.” 

It hits Ash a little later, but when it does, he visibly stiffens. 

“In my last year of senior high, my childhood friend moved back to Japan after living six years abroad with his older sister,” Eiji says. “He’s the one who taught me English. I’m not a sheltered boy, Ash.”

“It’d be better for my heart if you were.”

“I think a lot of people think it would be better if everyone were just like that. Pure and innocent.” It’s not wistful, more so neutral and conveyed through someone who doesn’t agree with the statement at all. “But then it wouldn’t really make us human, would it?”

What he said isn’t the answer Ash is looking for—that, Eiji can see at least, but it cuts the conversation off cleanly. After all, Eiji has to go back to the apartment before he gets any worse. 

“I’ll—”

“Let me take you home.”

Eiji pauses for a moment. “It’s fine. You don’t have to.” 

“But I want to,” Ash insists, pulling out his keys. “I don’t want to risk anyone taking advantage of you when you look like you’re about to pass out.” 

“Actually, I think I might.”

-

_“What the fuck, Eiji?”_ If Ash denies he’s angry, then he wouldn't be lying because he’s livid. Eiji looked like shit the moment he walked into the shoot, had a baseball cap in his hand, mask shoved down under his chin but still hooked around his ears. But didn’t act the part, so Ash just assumed it was he was the type of person who always seemed worse when they’re actually fine.

Ash didn’t want to meddle; he didn’t want to touch on something Eiji was sensitive about only to incite another disaster like yesterday. But apparently, he didn’t really need to do anything. 

Because the Japanese boy _is_ the walking disaster himself.

“Calm down, Ash.” Eiji’s voice is right next to Ash’s ear, his breaths uneven. “It’s not a big deal.” His arms loosen slightly around Ash’s neck, and Ash has to lean over a little more to make sure he doesn’t fall back. 

“Eiji, I’m beginning to wonder if you even know what the definition of ‘it’s not a big deal’ means,” Ash says, grinding the words through his teeth. “Because, to me, it means getting a fucking papercut—not almost fainting because you haven’t slept in forty-eight hours.” 

“Three months ago, I stayed in bed and didn’t move for an entire week. My family had to drive me to the hospital and stick an IV in me because I couldn’t eat.” Eiji mumbles all of this, and Ash doesn’t know if he’s saying it willingly or if he’s in a state of consciousness that completely strips his walls down. 

“I left when the IV bag was empty, but then repeated that cycle over and over again. I think I lost over twenty kilos within a month and survived on rice and tea for a long time before Ibe-san finally dragged me outside and into a ramen shop.” He sighs, head dropping. Ash can feel the strands of Eiji’s hair brushing against his cheek softly. “I threw up and felt like dying, but I didn’t even have the capacity to blame him for it. Just felt an emptiness inside. In the end, I got a little better physically but the emotional impact was a lot greater. I owe him a lot.” 

Silence settles between them for a few moments before Ash breaks it. “So you came here.” 

“I thought I didn’t have a reason to—that I left Japan without looking forward to anything, but… I don’t know. Maybe I really did come here to escape from everything.” A breathy laugh escapes from Eiji’s lips, his entire body shaking with the tremors of it. It’s something that’s supposed to make light of the situation, provide a sense of relief, so Ash doesn’t know why his heart tightens a little. 

Perhaps because Eiji sounds raw. Like he’s digging this out from inside of him, and for the first time, telling someone how he feels without masking it behind something else. 

It hurts, but it’s liberating to tell someone. Ash understands the sentiment; he has snuck into Shorter’s penthouse at three a.m. to rant so many times that he’s surprised the guy still tolerates him. Lately, though, he’s slowly realizing that sometimes, the heaviness comes back like a tsunami.

He hopes Eiji doesn’t feel the same way in the future. 

Crouching, Ash lets Eiji climb off his back before turning around to steady him. “Tell me now if you still feel like you’re going to pass out.”

“I’m... fine.” But Eiji can’t even look him in the eye. They’re glazed over, lids falling over halfway.

Ash stares at him for a full minute before lifting the boy up like a kitten and plopping him back down on the bike’s seat. And after putting on his helmet, Ash swings his leg over, arm coming around Eiji to pull him against his chest. Eiji winds his arms around Ash, chin propping up on his shoulder, but the motion is so weak that Ash ends up typing the jacket around the two of them, making sure Eiji won’t fall anytime throughout the ride. 

“It’s awkward, but you’ll live,” Ash says.

“Actually, I’m more concerned about you,” Eiji murmurs, voice so low Ash can barely hear it. 

But it doesn’t matter because behind his dark visor, his face is already flushing, the tips of his ears burning.

-

The boy looks like he’s twelve, baby tufts of hair sticking out from over his forehead, a pout at his lips and fire in his eyes. Sing Soo-Ling is drowned out by his somewhat baggy hoodie, the random patches of pastel shades uncharacteristic compared to the boy’s personality. He has his brows drawn together, hands free of the fingerless gloves Yut-Lung has oftentimes seen him wear before.

He has this whole demeanor like he’s against the entire world and the values it upholds. 

“You don’t seem this small in photographs,” Yut-Lung says. “My brothers say you’re about to turn fifteen, but you look barely twelve.”

“And my cousin Nadia says you’re a _snake,”_ Sing spits out. “That everyone in the Lee family doesn’t represent the dragons they say they are—only wingless, limbless _snakes.”_

“Then your cousin is correct.” Pausing, Yut-Lung tilts his head to one side, hair sliding down over his shoulder. “Well, mostly correct. I think the only exception to that statement is my mother. She is one of many who have been bitten and poisoned by the Lees, even after having been one herself for a short time.” 

Sing is only slightly surprised at his response, eyes widening a fraction before assuming their previous state. But Yut-Lung notes that his guard lowers, his arms uncrossing and the line of his shoulders relaxing. 

“If you admit that, you’re at least better than the rest of them,” Sing says.

“Mm, but that’s where you’re wrong.” Getting up from where he sits, Yut-Lung scans the empty walls, eyes falling on the place underneath the coffee table where the jade rug used to be. His apartment is bare—more so than he would like, but better that way. It’s easy for people to grasp what type of person he is when he customizes his living space; keeping it standard and clean without a single picture frame or decoration in sight is best. He’s beginning to wonder if it’ll wash him out even more, make him cling to an emptier state of _being._

These things shouldn’t define a person, but it makes him want to trash the place just to see what it feels like to live in absolute filth. 

He used to light cigarettes in his room back at the Lee mansion, watch as the smoke curled up in gray spirals, the smell of burnt paper and tobacco in the air that masked the strong aroma of jasmine. When his brothers found out he’d been stealing cigarettes off the guards at the front gate, they killed those inattentive guards and instead gave Yut-Lung a box of incense. 

It wasn’t the same as cigarettes. Didn’t veil the jasmine clinging to his clothes, to his hair and sheets. 

Yut-Lung wanted so _badly_ to remember that awful smell of cigarettes, but it didn’t last. The servants cleaned out everything, took him to a new room with new furniture and gave him new clothes. 

“Because I…” Yut-Lung murmurs, “...am the worst of them all.” 

“You sure don’t look like it.” It’s said so bluntly that Yut-Lung actually has to freeze to let the words process through his mind. “More like one of those overly pretty guys in the historical dramas Nadia watches. The one people start shipping with the main male lead even though there is _zero_ chance for them to be together.”

_What?_

“Not that I advocate judging someone based on how they look, because that’s probably the quickest way to get screwed over,” Sing continues, shrugging. He pulls at the end of the cord of his hoodie, twirling woven strands around his in finger nonchalantly. “And, to be honest, I don’t really care how horrible you think you are. What I _actually_ wanna know is why a random dude walked into school and posed as my dad before giving some lame ass excuse for my teachers to let me out early.” 

Tracing his steps back to his seat, Yut-Lung lowers himself down at the edge of it, crossing his legs at the ankle. He folds his hand in his lap. “Shorter Wong is a close friend to Ash and Nadia Wong works at the agency he represents as part of his crew. I’d like you to tell me everything about him. Every little detail they say that has to do with him.”

“And why should I?”

Yut-Lung gives him a saccharine smile, words dripping with honey. “Because I asked nicely, and next time, I won’t.” 

Sing stops twirling the cord of his hoodie around, giving him a flat look, brows raised. 

He’s not threatened at all, and Yut-Lung can tell by the way he completely unwinds himself that the boy has made himself home. The lasting stiffness in his body is gone, his guarded front melting away each second he is here. Yut-Lung isn’t someone to be trusted—just as Sing emphasized the moment he opened his mouth, but for some reason, all of that doesn’t matter anymore. Or at least, superficially, it doesn’t. 

“I mean, if you’re so obsessed with him, why did you turn down the opportunity to shoot with him yesterday?” 

“It’s called keeping tabs on the enemy, not _obsession,”_ Yut-Lung corrects. “And my brothers were the ones who decided to pull out in the last second.”

Sing sits further back, slumping in his seat with his hands shoved in his pockets, scowling. “Which is why Nadia practically skinned me alive when that Japanese boy accidentally drank the vodka I poured in her water bottle.”

“Japanese boy?”

“Yeah,” Sing replies, flicking a hand in the air. “The kid who replaced you in the shoot when you didn’t go. Apparently, he’s the photographer’s assistant. Ash likes him a lot.” He averts his eyes at the memory of something unpleasant, directing his attention elsewhere as he shrinks back even more. “I thought I was going to die when he came over right after Nadia left.” 

Yut-Lung didn’t know there was someone to take his place for that campaign, much less someone who probably has had no experience in modeling before. But the thing that surprises him more is the prospect of Ash actually having feelings for someone when he’s never shown interest in the idea of love and romantic relationships before.

The Lee family keeps a close eye on anyone who they deem a potential rival or enemy to their agency, and Ash is on the top of their list.

There was that odd event that happened a while ago with the Club losing Ash under means that were never brought to light, but he disappeared for a while. No one ever caught a glimpse of him until two years ago when he debuted at NK Agency, all poster-boy with a classic pretty playboy style. 

Yut-Lung knows he’s kept a low profile ever since. He reinvented himself from his previous angel-eyed concept, got rid of all the innocence that surrounded his childhood image. If anything, he’s only gotten media raving about this transition, scrambling to get him on their covers and campaigns. But not a single one of those magazines ever questioned him once about what happened in those years he decided to discontinue modeling. 

And though Yut-Lung is sure some publishers are itching to get the story, burning for something good from the boy, no one has even _tried_ getting information about it.

So Yut-Lung can’t help but wonder if this mystery _“Japanese boy”_ has finally come to upset the balance, yank apart those velvet curtains, and end the whole wave of curiosity still sitting stagnant in the air. 

“His name,” he murmurs, mostly to himself. When Sing doesn’t show any indication of having heard him, Yut-Lung raises his voice, dark eyes connecting with Sing’s. “What is his name?”

Sing blinks. “That Japanese boy? I think it’s Eiji. Eiji… something. Does he have to do with anything?”

“No.” _I can use him as leverage._

“Okay.” Straightening, Sing tips forward on his toes, then back on his heels. A jittery feeling emanates from him, full of unwound nerves, caused by unchecked youth. “Then, if you don’t need me anymore, can I go? I promised to meet some of my friends after school.”

“Wait.” Yut-Lung grabs a phone of the kitchen counter, tossing it to Sing who easily catches it with one free hand. The boy stares at it momentarily, taking in the glossy black screen before his eyes widen in response. “I’ll contact you through this, and you can call or text me information if, for whatever reason, you can’t come over. Don’t use it for anything else. Just for the things between you and me.”

 _“Holy—_ how rich are you?” Sing gawks at it holding it in both hands like it’s worth a million dollars. Yut-Lung never understood why people are infatuated over a rectangular piece of metal. “This is the latest model. I still have one from like four generations ago!”

“It’s not my money,” Yut-Lung simply says. “And as I’ve said, don’t use it for frivolous things like playing games or texting friends. Only for serious matters.”

“Yeah. Of course.” He says that now, but Yut-Lung doesn’t actually expect to keep his word.

Sing is already unlocking the phone, testing out the new features. He pauses, looking up, a finger hovering over something. “Hey, can I call you ‘Yue’? I don’t really like the sound of ‘Yut-Lung.’”

“I don’t mind.”

With that settled, Sing excuses himself, the door swinging shut behind him, elevator doors dinging a moment later. He’s out of the building before Yut-Lung can take another breath.

And, somehow, he reminds Yut-Lung of his fourteen-year-old self. The hate and anger weren’t so deep-seated back then; he still had stars in his eyes, thought he could be independent even when his brothers have already shown themselves to be possessive. 

But it was all shattered when he met that guy, started to smell like cigarettes and come back early in the morning when he should’ve been in his room the entire night. 

Yut-Lung was stupid back then. Stupid and horribly _naïve._

He wanted someone to love him so much that he got himself in this whole damn mess, spilled blood all over his hands. It’s a heavy burden he’ll never escape, so since then, he’s been making the memories temporarily foggy by tipping back some red wine—just enough to get tipsy so he doesn’t have the mental capacity to keep on ruminating about them.

It feels good and tastes good, all dark fruit and vanilla.

There’s a bitterness that he’s already used to—that tone of smoke and tobacco that barely registers. But it’s sweet.

Sweeter than cigarettes, and that’s all Yut-Lung really cares about in the end.

Padding to the kitchen, he yanks a cabinet open, grabbing a glass and opened bottle before he can think twice about it. The liquid sloshes in the cup, gripping at the sides before sliding down. The kind that was packed with fruit juice, dry, and easy to get drunk off of.

Yut-Lung swirls it around a few times, the bordeaux a manifestation of the little self-control he has. 

He only takes a few sips to really taste it, rolling the liquid over his tongue before downing the entire thing, hand already around the bottle to pour another glass.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ♡♡♡


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One thing for certain is that Eiji can be super clingy when he’s unconscious.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You all have waited long enough, so here's the next chapter! I'm kind of dead right now, but you know what? It's all gonna be alright in the end. Thankyouthankyouthankyou for supporting me even when I'm having my doubts about this story or bogged down with other responsibilities. You all are so, so nice, really, and I feel so damn happy whenever I read your comments. ♡ (Hopefully, there are no typos. I proofread, but it's kinda late.)

One thing for certain is that Eiji can be super clingy when he’s unconscious. 

He mutters things underneath his breath when he sleeps and likes to cuddle, which based on a first impression basis, isn’t really surprising except for the fact that Ash _knows_ Eiji doesn’t like being held. He’s gotten used to Ash’s small touches—hell, the boy even held his hand for the twenty-five minutes they were on that ferry ride and was even the first one to really get into the mood of that shoot from yesterday. But Ash still notices the way he tenses up when someone he’s only acquaintances with taps his shoulder. 

He always looks uncomfortable when Blanca gives him a reassuring pat on the back even though that man is practically one of the nicest people Ash knows. Sometimes he flinches back when a crew member grabs his arm or shoulder to discuss something with him. 

It’s not obvious all the time—mostly small changes like the straightening of his shoulders or the small look of distraught that flashes in Eiji’s eyes, but it’s very apparent to Ash. 

Ash can only wonder _why._

Because Eiji does seem like the approachable type—the kind of person you’d be comfortable talking to even if you don’t know him. The kind of person who would actually welcome that sort of thing—unlock the door of his apartment when he’s at home, let his friends come in whenever they wanted. He’s sensitive about personal topics and doesn’t open up easily, but he’s _physically_ open. Kind, supportive—that type of thing. 

Ash doesn’t necessarily mind Eiji being more relaxed with him, but sometimes he’s worried about the boy when he isn’t with good company. If Ash isn’t an exception and Eiji is naturally clingy and absent when he’s not at the right state of mind or when he’s unconscious, some super precarious things could happen. 

Like now. 

Because, _fuck,_ Ash might have a thing for Eiji and the boy has no clue that _him_ being like _this_ is really distracting and makes it extremely difficult for Ash to exert self-control over himself. 

He’s literally sweating right now, trembling arms braced on either side of Eiji, fingers curling into the sheets. Ash’s face is dangerously close to his— _so_ close that he can feel every soft puff of Eiji’s breath on his lips. 

_Shit shit shit shit shit. Why is he so cute? Why is this happening to me?_ Ash lets out a strained bout of laughter. _Oh yeah, ‘cause I might be so gone for this guy I have no idea it already happened._

No one but Shorter and Blanca has ever stepped foot in his apartment, and even then, Ash doesn’t like having people over unless they have nowhere else to go. So the fact that he brought Eiji in is pretty much way off from his textbook. 

Slowly, Ash brings one hand up to the back of his neck, fingers prying at the vice-like grip Eiji has around him. He unlatches one finger at a time and after what seems like a million years, Eiji finally lets go, arms falling back at his sides. 

Ash jerks up, then lets out the air he’s been holding back before promptly leaving in case anything else happens. He drags the white curtain separating his bed from the rest of the studio close. And when it’s all over, Ash pads to the kitchen, grabs a glass off the counter to run it under the tap, and chugs the whole thing before slamming it down on marble, heart thumping and chest heaving. 

His face is burning. Ash feels like he just took a dip in one of the fiery lakes of hell, heat emanating from his entire body.

Letting out a shaky breath of air, he turns around, elbows leaning back against the counter, head falling back as his eyes fall shut.

_Holy shit, I feel like I just lost twenty years off my life._

-

Eiji wakes up with his body sprawled over crinkled sheets, the duvet wound around his body like a snake. It takes him a little while to actually get untangled from everything, and when he’s finally free of the covers, he just flops down again, a thin layer of sweat clinging to his skin, parched, and achy all over.

He doesn’t notice he’s not in his room back at Ibe’s apartment until a full ten minutes later when he hears the sound of something sizzling, then a string of curses when the smell of burnt eggs enters the air. 

Sliding off the bed, he pushes away the curtain separating him from the rest of the studio apartment before letting out a yawn, eyes still stinging from the sudden brightness of the morning. Everything hurts and his face feels oddly numb and hot at the same time, the palpitations of his heartbeat quickening with every step taken. 

But it doesn’t really faze him because this has happened countless times before. The _“getting sick because I haven’t actually been living like a normal human being for the past week”_ thing. 

He never experienced the full-blown effect of finals week at his art school, but he has a feeling that when he returns, it’s going to be crippling—chock-full of high-strung stress and nights spent glued to his laptop on design sheets and programs. 

Ash is so preoccupied with trying to scrape the rest of the charred egg off the pan that he doesn’t notice when Eiji walks up next to him, tapping on his shoulder before holding his hand out for the spatula. Wordlessly, Ash places it in Eiji’s hand, watching as he sticks the dirty pan in the sink before washing the remaining black flakes off the spatula. 

“Do you have another one?” Eiji looks up at Ash expectantly. 

“Um, yeah.” Flinging open one of the smoothed black cabinets, Ash pulls out a slightly smaller one. It’s brand new—just like the one he tried frying an egg on. And at second glance, Eiji can tell that the electric stove is new as well, no bubbling underneath the surface or discolored rings around it. Only untouched glass-ceramic. 

Ash probably hasn’t cooked a single time since moving into the apartment. Which explains the fact that he can’t even cook something as simple as an egg. 

Eiji eyes the grocery bag near the sink, rummaging around it and grabbing a packet of bacon. He rips the plastic open with a knife before laying a few thick slices in between the two eggs he cracked open. “Could you turn on the ceiling fan, please? And open a window or two.” 

The steel wings start spinning a second later, ushering the burnt scent out of the apartment. 

Ash has a habit of watching people a little too close that it feels more like he’s drilling something into your face, but the act itself is sort of endearing. At least, that’s what Eiji thinks. 

He’s like a child at times. He’s curious and doesn’t hesitate to show his interest in people or things or concepts. In fact, Eiji would go ahead and claim that Ash is curious about _everything_. He’s the type of person who asks the “how” and “why” at the same time and doesn’t stop letting those ruminations go through his mind until he’s found the answer. Before, when he took Eiji to the New York Public Library, claiming it’s his favorite place, Eiji was startled, but it seems more apparent now. More obvious, and Eiji doesn’t know why he didn’t notice earlier. 

Slipping the spatula underneath the bacon and eggs, Eiji lays them on top of toast, then places the two platefuls of breakfast on top of the marble countertop to which Ash immediately starts gobbling down. 

Eiji slides into the seat next to Ash, uttering _“itadakimasu.”_ He doesn’t want to eat anything. He hasn’t actually _wanted_ to eat anything as of late, but if there’s one thing he knows, a sick person can’t get better if they don’t force down at least a couple bites per meal. 

“Ei-chan, you’re surprisingly okay today,” Ash says in between bites, jade eyes bright. “I mean, you don’t look good, but if you’re feeling fine, then that’s what matters, yeah?” 

Pressing a knife into the center of the egg, Eiji watches as the yolk splits open, orange running all over the toast. “I might be running a fever, actually.” _And I do feel terrible, but I’m not going to tell you for obvious reasons._

Ash stops. “Are you?” 

“It’s not that bad,” Eiji lies. 

But Ash doesn’t take his word for it, leaning over suddenly to press a hand into his forehead. His eyes widen, and Eiji puts his knife and fork down, preparing himself for another overreaction. 

He’s wrong when he thinks it’ll just be a short session of Ash yelling at him to take care of himself a little better, because the boy literally scrapes Eiji’s chair back, the sound reverberating through the empty air before scooping him up, one arm underneath his knees and other at his back. And to be honest, Eiji is too shocked to actually say anything, body tensing immediately as a soft, airy gasp escapes his lips. 

The next moment, Ash is dumping him on the bed, ordering him to stay put as he pulls out a hidden storage area underneath the bed and hands him a set of pajamas. Ash points at the door that leads way into the bathroom and serves as a separation from the bedroom. “First, take a shower. Or bath—whatever you want. Then, breakfast and rest.” 

Eiji nods silently, excusing himself with the clothes bundled to his chest. It’s not until he’s inside the bathroom that he realizes he’s still wearing his sneakers, one of the laces now undone and trailing across the tiled floor. 

He just stops to stare, a hundred different thoughts going through his mind before he starts feeling his pockets for his phone and pulling it out. Eiji had put it on silence for the shoot yesterday, and now that he’s actually checking up on his notifications, he sees twenty-seven missed phone calls from Ibe.

Putting the pajamas to the side, Eiji presses Ibe’s contact. “Hello? Ibe-san?” 

“Ei-chan!” The voice on the other end is relieved, though Ibe still sounds stressed. “Max told me you were at Ash’s. I am glad to know you’re alright.” 

“To be honest, I don’t know if I should be concerned or irritated,” Eiji says, trying to keep his tone level. “How has he not died already in the past seventeen years of his life?”

-

Eiji didn’t actually didn’t have enough energy to actually stay angry at Ash. Not that he really could when he wasn’t running a fever, either.

He just cranked the water all the way to cold and stood underneath the freezing waterfall until he felt better before turning the knob to lukewarm to scrub his head and body clean. He emerged from the shower feeling a little better, but it didn’t really last. 

All he could do was force down a fourth of his breakfast. Then the fever started hitting him harder, the sweat returning to his skin, making the clothes stick to his skin, plastering his locks all over his face. Sighing, Eiji rakes his hair back, blowing the few strands that wouldn’t comply off his forehead. He’s lying on top of the covers despite shivering, heat clinging to his skin. 

“Do I need to take you to the hospital?” Ash is restless, hands fluttering at his sides. He’s always been the type of person who can’t—for the life of him—sit _still_ , but Eiji decides that this temperament of his coupled with the apprehension plastered across his face is a good look. 

Eiji huffs a little, turning to his side. _Serves you right. I would’ve been better if you hadn’t just dumped me on the bed like that last night._

“No, I’m all good.” Pausing, Eiji taps his finger on top of the mattress. “Do you maybe have a book I can read?”

Ash stands up, the chair almost clattering back behind him. “Yeah, of course.” He disappears for a minute to round the bathroom before coming back with a few thick volumes of something. It’s not until he comes a little closer that Eiji can see what’s written at the front of the first cover. 

_Advanced Calculus: Theory and Practice._

Eiji almost chokes, recoiling as Ash comes closer to him, ready to drop the nasty subject on top of the blankets. “Ew, no. Ash, didn’t I already tell you I hate math? Of all the books you could check out from the library, why would you borrow this?” 

“I mean, it helps pass the time,” Ash says, “and I assumed that’s probably what you wanted to do since I’m not letting you out of the apartment today.” 

“Goodness, _I’m_ going to pass before time does.” He swats his hand in the air, motioning for Ash to get the books away from his sight. “I thought you would’ve had a good stack of fiction lying around somewhere.” 

Shrugging, Ash retraces his steps back to put the textbooks away. His voice is muffled by plaster walls, but Eiji can still hear him fine. “I hate reading them.” 

This, Eiji is surprised to hear. He’s never met someone who outright _hated_ fiction. Most people just preferred one genre over another or opted to exclusively read a particular author’s work—never taking the time to try someone else’s work for a change. Besides, even if Ash is already working as an adult, youth still surrounds him. He’s awfully like the boys Eiji used to babysit back in Japan, impulsive and reckless yet still possessing this dreamy-eyed look when he wasn’t blatantly bored to death. Those boys loved living in other worlds. It wasn’t novels they read—just manga, but it’s practically the same idea. Just fewer words and more pictures. 

“Why?”

“‘Cause I don’t wanna live through someone else’s life,” Ash says. “It’s so easy to get immersed into all of the action, lose yourself through the words. But it’s not me. I’m not the main character of some novel, and there’s no ending wrapped up in a bow for me—happy ending or not. Fate doesn’t exist. Fiction is just fiction.”

Eiji gazes at him, chocolate eyes level. “You don’t like losing yourself?” 

“Oh, no—” Ash laughs, head dipping down slightly as he glances down at his hands. They’re pretty, yet rough. 

There are calluses on the pads of his fingers, scars over the palm and the back of his hands. Usually, no one notices the tiny white lines running across his pale skin—only how thin and long his fingers are, but Eiji’s already counted them all, ran his eyes across each one enough times to memorize them. He notices things, but he doesn’t bring them to light. It’s not his duty to do so. 

“Don’t get me wrong, I _love_ losing myself to most everything, but only if it’s tangible. Only if it’s real.”

“It’s hard to know if stuff is.” 

Ash’s head jerks up, curiosity lighting those jade eyes, and Eiji has to look away. 

“Things we can see are obviously real, but I think most of us don’t care about that. We care about the things we can’t see,” Eiji says, lying onto his back. The black-painted ceiling bores heavily down on him, glossy finish reflecting the light that bounces off of the metal pipes running along the top edge of the walls. The abstract ideas and feelings we have are hardly tangible.”

Eiji doesn’t expect it at all, but Ash is bewildered, eyes wide and mouth slightly parted like he can’t believe he just said all of that. He even leans forward a little bit after the initial shock, brows drawing together as he scrutinizes Eiji’s face. 

“I don’t know; I thought fine arts students typically have a better grasp on the “feelings and emotions and all the things you can’t see are real” concept, but I guess that doesn’t apply to you, Ei-chan.” Ash crosses his arms together, brow raised. “You’re so fucking oblivious sometimes that I don’t know what the hell I should do with you. Kind of makes me angry because I realize that even if I’m trying to point you toward one clear direction, you’re obviously still gonna walk in circles.”

Blinking, Eiji freezes. 

“People _kiss_ when they’re in love, _cry_ when they’re sad. They’ll _murder_ if they hate someone enough and _hide_ from things they’re afraid of. You’re telling me these emotions are ‘hardly tangible’?”

Eiji knows he should accept Ash’s explanation straight-out, he knows he really should, but he doesn’t. Because things aren’t that plain and simple to him. “What if their actions don’t represent how they feel. You can’t possibly believe that every kiss this world has ever seen is actually one made out of love and affection, can you?” 

Ash just stays silent for a few minutes. Then, he gets up, picking the chair up after him. “I shouldn’t be arguing with a sick person. You should be resting.” 

“Wait, Ash—” Eiji crawls over to grab Ash’s arm because he’s genuinely confused why Ash seems so… _hurt._

But Ash pulls away, Eiji’s weak grip nothing that can tether him back. 

And Eiji just lets him go this time, watching as he retreats like a wounded animal, shoving the white curtain all the way across to the other side of the wall. He’s putting a physical boundary between them, making it clear he doesn’t want Eiji pursuing him any further. 

It’s the coldest thing Ash has done, and it honestly punches back at Eiji a little bit. He feels the ache from his muscles spread just as quickly to his heart, and as he sits back onto his heels, fingers tightening into fists and face scrunching up as a million thoughts race through his mind, he’s wondering why he’s starting to care about every little thing that happens with Ash.

-

A week and a half later, Ash shows up at Ibe’s apartment, head turned so the strands of his blond hair are covering half his face. He has his hands shoved deep in his pockets and a somewhat unapproachable expression on his face that makes it harder for Eiji to really say anything.

So he just opens the door for Ash to come in before returning to the kitchen, pouring hot water into a mug and ripping open a tea bag. The liquid slowly turns green, the slightly bitter aroma of matcha enters the air. 

“Coffee?” Eiji turns around a bit, watching as Ash tugs off his boots and sets them on the side where a row of shoes already are. He sticks his feet into extra slippers that are way too small for him, then plops down onto the sofa, arms splayed across the plush cushions, head falling back. 

He looks tired. More than tired, actually, but Eiji doesn’t comment on it.

When he still hasn’t responded by the time Eiji has reached his side, Eiji tries again, this time waving a hand in front of Ash’s face, voice soft as he says his name before repeating the same question. 

“I’m good.” Succinct. It’s not like Ash not to elaborate. He almost always says what’s on his mind to Eiji, spills he’s feeling and whatnot even when he doesn’t mean to. 

There are crescent-shaped bruises underneath his eyes, the pale skin so purple it’s almost as if he’s gotten into some kind of brawl the night before. When he opens his eyes again, long lashes fluttering open, his jade eyes are duller, hardly shining like the gems they usually are.

Eiji is still a little hesitant with him, wondering how he should approach the situation, but he sits down anyway, setting the cup of tea down with a clack against the circular coffee table in front of him. It’s rimmed with gold, the three wooden legs underneath supporting the entire structure easily unlike the way he struggles every single day to continue living the way he wanted to. He wonders sometimes how people can do effortlessly plow through so many things within a day. 

Lying in bed for a full week with the worst fever he’s had since childhood made him feel like extra baggage the world didn’t need to take on. The first few days after coming back home from Ash’s, Eiji was so out of it, fever worsening to a degree that warranted getting wheeled into the ER on a stretcher, that he’d spilled a couple of thoughts on his mind. Of course he didn’t entirely mean it for real—he was only muttering things here and there, unconsciousness swallowing him up before jerking just as fast away from him, but the whole thing scared Ibe enough. 

The next morning when Eiji had a better grasp on his surroundings and himself, he assured Ibe he wasn’t relapsing or actually thinking those thoughts exclusively, but sometimes he wonders as if that’s even the truth or some disguised lie he’s been putting masks on for months.

“But really, Ash.” Eiji doesn’t let his gaze fall. “What’s wrong?”

Sighing, Ash cards his fingers through his hair, fair locks falling right back into his eyes the moment he lets the strands go. His knee starts jumping up and down, and he presses a hand into it forcefully to make it stop, knuckles blanching in the process. “That perfume campaign we shot is getting published in a week. They invited us to a party tonight, but I really don’t wanna go.”

Eiji blinks. It’s not the answer he thought he would receive, and if he’s being honest, what Ash is worried about doesn’t seem like a big deal. But he knows that if he regards everything lightly, he’ll lose Ash a little more. The wedge from a week ago isn’t going to get any thinner. 

“I’m not sure if these parties are important, but if they aren’t, and you don’t have to go, you can always stay here with me,” Eiji suggests, taking a sip of his tea. His eyes are open and clear, and he hopes Ash sees them that way as well. 

When Ash doesn’t answer and silence fills the space between them, Eiji bites down on his bottom lip, fingers fidgeting around his mug. He tried to be calm and collected, but the truth is that he’s been high-strung this entire time too. Surprised as always when Ash showed up on the doorstep unannounced, faltering when he was about to press the call button about a dozen times throughout the week. 

He just stared at Ash’s icon for a full minute every time, looking at his pretty face and his wide smile. The photo Ash took for Eiji’s sister when they were on the ferry weeks ago. 

This sort of thing usually didn’t scare Eiji away. If there was ever something he needed to get out, something he needed to set straight, he’d call that person the moment he had the chance. In fact, Eiji probably wouldn’t have ever left Ash’s apartment without first ameliorating the situation, but now is different. 

The moment Ibe texted him, saying he was coming over to pick him up by the end of the day, Eiji quickly changed out of Ash’s clothes to toss his own on. He did Ash’s overdue laundry, folding it neatly on his bed before waiting the rest of the time out with his body back against the wall, legs pulled up. 

He felt worse afterward, but with Ash sulking in the room next to his, scribbling into a notebook with one of those thick calculus textbooks in front of him, Eiji felt like it was wrong for him to rest. He was imposing on someone who was currently angry at him. In fact, if he hadn’t felt like death trying to even sit upright on the floor, he would’ve excused himself outside and get a taxi instead of waiting for Ibe. 

He’s about to speak his mind, get the guilt off his shoulders when Ash suddenly turns in his seat, facing him before taking both of Eiji’s hands in his.

Ash swallows, heat already crawling up his neck, cheeks and ears burning pink, and Eiji’s apology dies at his throat. 

“I just… wanted to say I’m sorry for being an asshole when I should’ve been taking care of you,” Ash says. It comes out breathy, the air rushing out of his lungs as everything spills out. He’s actually having a hard time doing this, fingers a little too tight, eyes flickering away then back to Eiji’s chocolate ones repeatedly.

And it’s actually kind of endearing and adorable that the boy has to lock his ego in a cage and toss the key away temporarily to muster this up. Ash probably hasn’t said a single genuine “sorry” in years. This would be the first in a while.

“And, um, what I really meant when I said I didn’t want to go to the party was that I don’t want to go without _you._ I-I want you to be my date.” Ash squirms underneath the embarrassment of admitting all of this, the apology plenty kindle for the fire spreading across his features. He looks like he wants to shrink away, crawl inside a hole, and hibernate for a good million years before surfacing. 

“Okay.”

Ash freezes. “‘O-Okay?’ You’re not angry at me?”

Eiji offers him a small smile. “I _did_ offer to have you over if you choose not to attend the party.” He manages to untangle his fingers from Ash’s while the shock renders him vulnerable, tipping his head back to down the rest of the tea. “I will say, though, that even if I’m open to platonic hand-holding, I’d rather you didn’t try to strangle my hands with yours. You do this.” After settling the mug down on the coffee table, Eiji slides his fingers into Ash’s lax hand, gently curling them around to fit snugly and comfortably around Ash’s. “That interlocking finger thing that people do with knuckle against knuckle doesn’t feel that nice, and there’s not that much mobility. Less airflow. Sweaty palms—that sort of thing.”

Snatching his hand back, Ash lets out a shaky breath of air. “So, will you come? To the event, I mean. With me?” Now he’s rambling, the words firing from his mouth out in near disarray. “I mean, you don’t have to if you don’t want to, especially if you’re still feeling a little under the weather, but I think the designer would really like it if you did since you’re the one who modeled for them. Not that they expect anything from you—it’s just a prelaunch event—nothing special so I completely understand if you don’t wanna go since it’s kind of useless anyway, I guess. Unless you count meeting with connections and being respectful, but it’s not really your job ‘cause you were a sub so I don’t really know if—“

 _“Ash,”_ Eiji interrupts him, trying hard not to break out laughing. His mouth hurts from suppressing it, but he knows it’ll probably hurt more after splitting into a wide grin when he hasn’t done so in a while anyway. “I’ll definitely go with you, so please don’t worry about anything. You’re a friend. I don’t have any reason to turn down your invitation nor the company’s.”

Ash halts for a moment, something unreadable touching his eyes, then gets up suddenly from the couch like he’s ready to carry out a personal vendetta. “I’m gonna kill Shorter.”

Eiji blinks. “For what?”

“For sabotaging me.”

Standing, Eiji puts a hand up, confused. “Wait. By sabotaging, do you mean coming here and saying what’s on your mind? You do this all the time, though.”

“He told me to be painfully blunt, but apparently it didn’t work,” Ash says, marching toward the door and shoving his feet into boots without even tying the laces together.

-

Ash doesn’t even look at Eiji, but it’s all because he doesn’t want salt to rub in even more in his wound.

He’s tried to make himself clear every single time he hinted at the fact that he likes Eiji, but the boy literally doesn’t catch a single one. Ash literally asked him to be his fucking _date_ , for god’s sake, but apparently Eiji doesn’t think of it as anything past friendship.

And come to think of it, he was drunk the last time someone explained to him what a proper “date” is, so it figures that Eiji still doesn’t really know what it is. Which gets Ash thinking that he might actually either be flat-out straight or aromantic. Or he’s just oblivious about the topic of romantic relationships in general.

Shorter did tell Ash to be blatant about everything, and Ash definitely thinks he was since he had to legit talk to Eiji without all the built-in teasing and flirting he sometimes does out of habit, but it didn’t work.

It didn’t fucking work and now he’s sitting in a cab with Eiji, trying to tune out the driver’s mindless chatter as he takes them to the agency. 

“How’s the end of the school year been for you? Must be mad crazy; my daughter complains every day that’s she’s about done with high school.” The man chuckles, making a smooth turn right when the traffic light flashes green again. 

The agency is just right up ahead, all steel, glass, and fortified concrete. Ash could see those letters from miles away. NK. _Natasha Karsavina._ Blanca still has his fair share of flings and one night stands, but Ash knows from the information he’s gotten out of Golzine that the man still cares deeply for her. He probably always has her at the back of his mind whenever he’s out with another woman. No wonder the man can’t commit when the other party wants to go further and ends up getting his ass dumped every goddamn time.

“I mean, sure, college gives you freedom, but I always tell her that she’ll miss those days. Talk about adult responsibility, you know? Mad respect to those who can handle it ‘cause sometimes I struggle with it _real_ hard.”

“Wouldn’t know,” Ash says. He glances back at Eiji through the front view mirror, but he has his head turned away, chin propped on the heel of his hand as he gazes outside absentmindedly. “I don’t go to school.”

“Oh, so you finished already? Taking a gap year? Skipping college ‘cause you already have a job lined up?”

 _Adult responsibility my ass._ “Been working since I was eight, actually.”

The driver lets out a short bark of laughter, glancing over at Ash. “They’re working you to the bone, now, aren’t they—your parents? You’re doing your chores well enough, alright; my daughter just straight-up refuses.” He shakes his head. “Can’t even vacuum her own room or do the laundry once in a while. She’s not going to know what hits her once she moves out. You gotta appreciate what parents do before they’re gone, don’t you?” 

And this is why he hates cabs. Why he never calls a taxi. Because all the drivers he gets are always so damn talkative all the time and assume things when they probably shouldn’t.

Ash knows he should cut the guy some slack, but he’s just tired of it all.

Forcing on a smile, he hands the driver what he owes and tries not to slam the door shut behind him, but does so anyway. Eiji hops up right next to him, fingers grazing his. 

“Are you okay, Ash?” Round dark eyes, staring up at him when his heart is already crippled with the extra emotional baggage hooked onto it. The ends are digging in hard, sharp enough to slice cleanly through, but so damn heavy Ash feels like he’s going to tear in half.

He hasn’t felt this horrible since the day his brother decided he couldn’t handle anything anymore and overdosed on analgesics. 

Ash wants to get the image out of his mind. If he can’t wipe it clear, he wishes he could just repress it so deep within that it’ll never surface for as long as he lives. But his mind didn’t react that way. There wasn’t a single memory that was buried.

It’s still _fresh._

Everything is and he can hardly understand how he can still walk around without actually breaking down. People say he’s strong— _hell_ that monster Golzine always said he was strong, praising him and saying that everything he was forced to handle seemed like a fucking walk in the park, but sometimes he doesn’t know. 

Ash isn’t affiliated with Golzine anymore nor is he ever going back to that hellhole of a place, but he still feels tethered to it. Shackled like he’s supposed to be the one to help the rest of the children left who are going through the same things he initially went through. 

But Ash doesn’t have a hero complex or a high sense of altruism. He’s selfish and scared and… honestly? He still feels like that kid who walked straight into that agency without even knowing what kind of diabolical hell it actually was.

There wasn’t such thing as going to an orphanage or forced into the foster care system when someone as rich as Golzine told childcare services and whatever other government organization that they didn’t need to worry about him. Because, yeah, getting taken in by some random old man as a poor boy whose parents abandoned him and whose older brother just committed suicide is completely normal. Not weird at all. 

_“Fuck,”_ Ash mutters.

His body feels cold, colder in the chilly late-March air, fingers freezing even though Eiji is saying something else to him with concern in those doe eyes. 

Ash feels like shit and his heart is doing this uncomfortable thing where it squeezes really hard when he’s all hurt and messed up inside. 

He wants to plunge his hand into his chest and rip it out before screaming at it to stop screwing him over. 

And he’s so out of it that Eiji has to pull him into the agency before passersby start snapping pictures and uploading them on social media with captions about how he’s lost his mind. 

Ash hasn’t ever been in one of those scandals where headlines and articles make things a lot more interesting than they actually are, but he likes his privacy as it is and would rather not have to be stopped by everyone when trying to order a hot dog from a stand or get stared at in the library because his face is plastered across tabloids instead of fashion magazines. 

When they actually get inside, Eiji presses the last floor number when they make it into the elevator. The steel doors close, trapping them inside for a good minute or two.

“It’s bad, isn’t it?” He’s trying desperately to fill in the space so it’s not deafening silence. Ash can tell he wants him to talk. Eiji respects people’s space when they don’t open themselves up voluntarily, but there are some times when that value doesn't apply to a situation.

Eiji purses his lips, head bowing for a moment before he looks back up, brows drawing together. “Ash, no one can help you if you don’t say anything, okay? Trust me, I _know.”_

Letting out a long sigh, Ash cards his fingers through his hair half-way, his hand staying there for another few seconds before he drops his arms completely, caving. “Can I… have a hug?” 

If the request is odd, Eiji doesn’t show any reaction of it being so. He just opens up his arms, stepping forward to embrace Ash, chin propping on his shoulder, squeezing gently. It feels a lot more natural than it’s supposed to be—a lot more relieving and _good_ , and Ash is honestly just more afraid of that than anything else at the moment. 

Because he wants more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Oh, but I have to apologize for never introducing myself first.” The man bows. “Dino Golzine. It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wrote this in like 156848156102 sittings so I'm sorry if this chapter is a little shaky! (I don't know... maybe it's because I re-read and edit the same chapter so many times that it all just sounds weird in the end.) It's also taking me forever to roll on with the plot, so I hope you all are up for like a 200k word fic cause it sure does feel like it's gonna be that long.

“Are you eating, Eiji?”

Nadia watches him as pulls his sweatshirt over his head before neatly folding it and placing it on top of a nearby table. 

He’s not _uncomfortable_ with this whole “fitting” situation, but he’s not entirely comfortable with it either. Mostly because he knows what he looks like without a shirt on and how different he is compared to how he normally was before he got into that mess back in Japan.

Eiji has to fight to urge to cross his arms in front of his chest in an effort to make himself look less… _small,_ but it probably wouldn’t help much. If anything, it only brings out the definition of his collarbones and makes his arms look like matchsticks. If someone were to look at his face, they would probably think he’s well-fed and healthy but one glance at his body told them otherwise. 

Sometimes when he glances at the mirror and sees the almost inward slope of his stomach, skin stretched across his ribs, and the wings of his hip bones jutting out from underneath the waistband of his jeans, it reminds him of how much he’s deteriorated after one incident. Of how much one thing can really change someone.

But Eiji is getting better, or, at least he _hopes_ he is. Gaining back lost weight is one thing, but he’s prioritizing coming into terms with what happened and handling it without blaming himself.

“I am,” he says, still fidgeting underneath everyone’s attention on his figure. Ash is literally burning a hole through him, Nadia mildly concerned. “Sometimes I forget, but when I don’t, it’s kind of hard to eat everything on the plate.” He’s not going to specify that he hasn’t had a proper breakfast in ages and can hardly force down dinner. His body already went through a phase of rejection where everything but rice and tea made him nauseous to the point of vomiting. Cooking the foods he’s most familiar with doesn’t even help that much. 

Ibe has been obsessing over him recently, sitting down to watch him eat bite by bite, always asking if there’s anything specific he wants to have for dinner before going out to explore the city. 

Eiji doesn’t want anyone to worry about him, and yet, nearly everyone is. 

Nadia looks doubtful, brow raised as she pulls a high-necked shirt from one of the silver racks. A grosgrain ribbon is tucked underneath the collar, pointed lapels pulled down across the front. The sleeves are flared at the ends, matching ribbons tied into bows across each wrist. 

“If you’re ever desperate for a meal and don’t feel like going out or cooking, you can always come over,” she says, holding the shirt up over Eiji before handing it to him. He takes it, undoing the buttons before shrugging it on. “Shorter would be thrilled to have someone other than Ash over. He always cooks too much food, anyway. Not like he has more than two mouths to feed.”

“That’s kind of you to offer.” Eiji is having a hard time buttoning up his shirt with the flouncy cuffs falling over his fingertips, so Nadia steps in to help, fingers fast and nimble. She breaks away for a moment to deliver a stack of clothes to Ash before coming back with a pair of pinstriped trousers and a matching blazer for Eiji.

“So how about it?” Nadia gives Eiji a wide smile, head cocked to the side. “After the party, do you want to come over? Shorter hasn’t seen you in nearly a month; I can tell he really misses you.” 

As much as Eiji likes Shorter, he’s unsure whether he should accept or not. In fact, he wasn’t planning on leaving the apartment at all until Ash showed up at four with an invitation. But rejecting every offer that comes his way and secluding himself isn’t going to help him at all. The trip to New York is meant for him to accept change and recover, after all. 

“Okay.” He puts on a small smile. “I’d love to.”

Nadia pauses, eyes widening. She probably didn’t expect him to agree so easily. _“Really?”_

Eiji nods. “Yeah, of course.” 

Grabbing a pair of patent loafers off the floor, Nadia gives them to Eiji, pulling her phone out of her pocket and pressing on a contact. Hand over the speaker, she glances at him briefly, voice coming down to a whisper. “Size seven, right?” 

Eiji still doesn’t know US sizing, so he just nods, opting to try on the shoes first before asking for another size. They fit perfectly, and he’s starting to wonder how Nadia always gets his size right when she has never actually taken his measurements before. _He_ doesn’t even know his own size; his sister is the one who buys all his clothes.

Eiji is slipping on the loafers, finding out they’re actually the perfect size when Ash takes his arm and leads him in front of one of the mirror that wraps around half the wall. 

He gestures at Eiji to sit, briefly looking through some of the products Nadia has already laid out before sitting down in front of him. Ash drags Eiji’s chair forward until their knees bump into each other, then squeezes concealer on the back of his hand, dabbing a clean brush at the center and brushing excess product off before taking it underneath Eiji’s eyes where lack of sleep has made itself know in the form of bruised crescents. 

It’s all done in silence, tension heavy in the air until Ash breaks it, swallowing first before speaking. “Nadia rambles like Shorter when she’s excited,” he explains, breaking away only to press the pad of his finger underneath Eiji’s chin as a signal to lift it. “She won’t be coming back too soon.” 

Eiji complies, hoping it’s not too obvious that he’s actually kind of nervous right now. He doesn’t know why it’s so surprising that Ash knows how to use makeup since the boy is a model and is oftentimes exposed to this kind of thing.

“Close your eyes.” The brush is feather light, the motions quick and decisive. Ash doesn’t spend more than five minutes on Eiji’s face, giving him tinted chapstick to put on afterward. 

He’s about to do his own face when Nadia comes back, the air around her buzzing. When she catches sight of Eiji’s face, she just stares at him for a full minute before switching her gaze at Ash. “You’re good, Ash. Ever wanted to quit modeling to help me in makeup?”

“Nope.” There’s no hesitation in his answer. Just a flat-out rejection. “I don’t wanna fuss over people all day long. I’d rather be fussed at myself.” 

Nadia shrugs. “Figures.” She leans down, pulling open one of the drawers in the far right, hands rummaging around for something. “But you didn’t like it in the beginning, though. The prepping and whatnot.” 

“I was sensitive,” Ash says, shrugging as his eyes flicker to the side. “I didn’t like people touching me, but I’m fine with it now.”

 _”I didn’t like people touching me.”_ The sentence lingers in Eiji’s head, the words weaving in and out as the pieces the little things he’s learned about Ash together. If he’s denying he’s sensitive now, that’s a blatant lie almost anyone can pick out because he definitely _is_ , but the fact that Ash hated physical contact when he started modeling again makes sense. 

He must have thought he’d have to go through the same things back in his old agency. Like he immediately owed something to the photographer or producer once the shoot was done—an impending thing so _strong_ Eiji doesn’t know how his younger self was able to sit through the entire shoot without bolting. 

Fingers digging into the wool of his trousers, Eiji presses his lips together. He doesn’t want to think about it, and yet, every single time a small reminder comes up, his brain can’t help but circle back to the same thing. 

He starts trembling a little, collar feeling a little too tight. His heart pounds against his sternum, all erratic and tight and so sudden that he lurches forward, fingers gripping the metal chair in front of him as he feels himself drift away, sound and noise muted all around him like they’re being stifled by cotton.

But hands are gripping his shoulders, the pressure steadying him. Ash is saying something over and over again, and when Eiji can finally _hear_ , it’s the one thing that really anchors him. 

“Eiji, _breathe._ Focus on me; don’t look at anything else, and take in deep breaths.” Ash lets go of his shoulders slowly, face white as a sheet. Eiji doesn’t want him to wear that kind of expression. “Put your head in between your knees for a few minutes if you need to.”

Eiji just squeezes his eyes shut, waiting for it to pass, wishing those symptoms wouldn’t come back ever again. He’s been avoiding triggers, and Max has been so cautious and extra careful not to provoke one ever since he found about about them, but they still come. They’re still so jarring that they leave Eiji weak and unsteady. 

One moment, he feels like he might die, and the next, it all just dissolves into a scalding bath around him, the waters lapping at his chin like they might take over again.

“Ibe’s already at the venue with Max, but if you don’t feel like you can make it tonight, I’ll let him know and drive you to Shorter’s first.” 

Ash watches him carefully, jade eyes an even line. Through his peripheral, Eiji can see Nadia standing at the side, white fingers tight around her phone.

But he’s _fine._

Eiji tells himself he’s going to be fine when he calms down, the fact that he’s still quivering slightly is a minor detail that will disappear. And if it doesn’t, then it’ll still fine because, in the end, he just reminds himself that nothing can be worse than what has already happened before.

-

The ride feels like a second, and when he’s getting out of the car, taking Ash’s hand absentmindedly, Eiji doesn’t even blink when a hundred different sets of eyes instantly go to him, a question in every single one.

What he’s almost too aware of, however, are the pictures in front of him across a giant screen, flipping through multiple photos from the shoot he did with Ash. They’re all in black in white, subtle edits made to each. Eiji’s surprised it looks so similar to the original when he knows how much editing went into final products. 

While he was shooting, the embarrassment never actually really washed over him. But now viewing himself plastered across that huge screen and scattered throughout the showroom, he feels a little more self-conscious, the line of his shoulders tensing as he tries not to flinch every single time someone’s eyes dart over to take a glimpse at him. 

Ash’s hand squeezes his, jade eyes gleaming in the rather dimly-lit room. His hair is smoothed away from his face, face clear from any strays. “You okay, Ei-chan?”

Swallowing, Eiji nods. “I’m good.” _For now._

“If you ever feel like you need to leave, let me know.” 

“Of course.” The words leave his mouth, but they sound more far away than he’d like. Eiji just needs to calm down right now and pretend the entire thing is a huge festival. A posh, classy festival with servers dressed in formal attire serving hors d'oeuvres, perfume sampling, and whatever other things the party has. 

Idle chatter surrounds them, one voice piercing through the others. It runs off the person’s tongue like velvet, but Eiji notes that it’s not as rough as Ash’s. There aren’t any snags within their speech, all of it refined to the point that it sounds too… _perfect._

“I’m terribly sorry for my selfishness,” the boy says, lips stretching out in a demure smile. He watches Eiji carefully through dark eyes lined with red, stark against milk-white skin. When he tilts his head, a few strands of hair fall from behind his ear, so thick and black it looks like it could cut into his skin. “I didn’t force you into a rather uncomfortable situation, did I?” 

_Yut-Lung Lee._ Eiji doesn’t have to pull out his phone this time to see if the face matches with the ones from the search bar. That face has been imprinted into his mind—almost like something of a spell. Eiji has always been drawn to pretty faces, and Yut-Lung’s is no different, though the aura around him felt like it could burn Eiji with ice. 

Eiji just shakes his head, the words stuck in his mouth. 

Yut-Lung’s gaze lingers on Eiji’s for a second longer before swiveling to Ash’s, lips curling at the edges. “I’d love if we could work again a second time when the chance comes, Ash. It would give us the opportunity to talk more, converse. We hardly ever see each other, after all.” 

“I appreciate your kind words,” Ash says with a tight smile, “but I’ve always preferred working alone.” 

“Fair enough..” He says it so evenly that doesn’t betray what his actual reaction is. Yut-Lung offers them both a bow before strolling off, lace shirt swaying against his soft figure. His heeled boots click against the marble floors, hidden under high-waisted trousers. 

“Fucking liar,” Ash mutters underneath his breath. “He doesn’t mean a single word he says.” 

“Not that he tries too hard to hide it,” Eiji says, letting out a shaky breath of air. There was so much unnecessary pressure in the air that he almost forgot how to breathe. “He’s cold as ice. I can’t imagine he actually likes going to these parties and working with people.” 

Ash frowns. “Because he thinks he’s too good for anyone, that’s why.” 

“You always judge too early, Ash.” 

“Trust me, I know him.” 

Pursing his lips, Eiji shakes his head. “But I don’t.”

“Ei—”

“Excuse me, Ash Lynx?” A server has her hands folded in front of her before gesturing to a grand piano sitting in a concentrated corner of the room, its glossy body dusted with filtered light. “Are you still available to play a few songs for us tonight?” 

Closing his mouth, Ash lets out a puff of air, and Eiji can tell he’s trying hard not to get too annoyed by the fact that the server interrupted a quarrel he was set on winning, but he eventually resigns himself with a smile. 

“I’d be my pleasure.” He turns to Eiji, inclining his head toward the plush couches at the very back of the venue. A few guests are already lounging against them, glasses in their hands as they continue on with idle chatter—sparkling water based on the bottles servers are parading around. “I’ll meet you in a few, okay?” 

Eiji just nods, hating moments like these where he doesn’t have a single friend he can talk to in a party. 

Apparently, Blanca, Max, and Ibe are here, but Eiji hasn’t seen any of them yet. So he just accepts a drink from a tall server who dips down to ask him if he would like one and wanders to one of the open sofas, sitting at the very edge of it.

He crosses ankles, then uncrosses them and back again until he settles with just keeping his legs together, allowing himself to scoot back only when his shoulders start aching.

Without even taking a sip from his sparkling water, he sets it on the glass table next to him, the lip of it brushing against a bouquet of forget-me-nots. The petals are silky-soft, a violet-blue that reminds him of home. Eiji wonders how long it was since he’s seen flowers growing from the ground rather than in a flower shop tucked into the corner of one of New York City’s bustling streets. 

He presses his mouth into his fist, eyes on the flowers for a tad bit longer, wondering if the bittersweet feeling that is rising in his chest is one that’s telling him he should probably call his family and say hi rather than exchanging text messages with his sister every few days. Not that he will have anything to say, really. It’s more in the sense of wanting to let them know that he’s okay and that the break is helping more than they probably think it is. 

“Missing someone?”

The voice is unfamiliar, to Eiji’s disappointment. And when his eyes flicker up, he sees an older man without hair and beady hazel eyes, a grin stretched across his face. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him before, yet he has that edging impression that maybe he has seen his face on the Internet once before. 

”Waiting, actually.” 

“On Aslan?” 

_Aslan?_ “Ash?”

The man stops for a moment before nodding. “Yes, Ash. He goes by that now, doesn’t he?” 

Eiji doesn’t acknowledge he never knew Ash’s given name. He attempts a smile instead, hoping that the man will leave after making trivial conversation. He’s familiar to this kind of environment—practically forced to engage in dialogue with people he doesn’t want to talk to out of respect, but something about this man is off. The way he speaks about Ash so familiarly even though Eiji is sure Ash isn’t too cozy with anyone but the crew at NK Agency and Shorter raises red flags. 

“Oh, but I have to apologize for never introducing myself first.” The man bows. “Dino Golzine. Ash used to model for my agency before moving elsewhere once our contract ended. It’s a pleasure to meet you.” 

Stiffening, Eiji fleetingly contemplates just leaving right there and then, but the Golzine’s presence has already made itself known. A few guests to their right glance back for seconds longer than necessary, curious, before returning to their discussions. 

Leaving now would be incredibly rude and unsavory person or not, choosing silence is also an answer. One that Eiji doesn’t want.

“Eiji Okumura,” Eiji manages to say, glad his sleeves cover his shaking fingers.

Golzine gestures to the space next to him. Eiji swallows. “May I sit next to you?”

“If you’d like, of course.” 

“Thank you.” The sofa dips down underneath his weight, pulling Eiji toward him, but the boy digs his fingers into the armrest next to him to anchor himself down.

A few seconds of silence sit in between them, background noise filling it as the sound of soft jazz cascades through the room. But even if the piano is calming, it’s suffocating next to the man who hurt Ash more than anyone can ever comprehend.

It’s overwhelming.

His heart speeds up, but he takes deep breaths in order to calm it, eyes focusing on the other side of the room where Ash is even though his vision is blurry. It’s just a dark blur of black, of mottled colors where a small fraction of the guests are crowded around to watch. 

“Are you alright?” The words are empty. Polite words with nothing behind them.

“I’m—” Eiji lets out a forceful puff of air. His shoulders flinch inwards. “—recovering from a fever. Everything’s fine.” 

The silence resumes, but Eiji just wishes it would end. 

Golzine glances down at his watch, noting the time before fixing his gaze in the direction Eiji’s is. “What is your perspective on jazz? I find it quite unrefined. They improvise, play with more syncopation than necessary. I had classically-trained pianists teach Ash, but it seems like the boy has a penchant for learning things he perhaps should not.” 

The song ends, the sound of modest clapping heard from the other side as Ash’s fingers begin to slide across the black and white keys again for another song. “Opinions differ.” 

Hand falling onto Eiji’s thigh, Golzine squeezes lightly. “You speak the truth.” If it were from any other person, Eiji wouldn’t think of it as anything but a bold show of agreement, but after recent events and knowledge as to who this man really is, Eiji can’t stay sitting for any longer. 

He’s about to offer some excuse on needing to go to the bathroom when someone approaches them, a wide smile on his face. 

“Eiji, if you don’t mind, Monsieur and I have a bit of catching up to do.” Blanca offers him a hand which Eiji takes shakily, almost losing his balance in the process. But Blanca’s grip is strong, fingers tightening around his for a second before completely loosening so he can greet Golzine. 

The faint chatter of French commences, and Eiji has to hold himself together, disappearing between the other people around him before he can find an empty area to properly breathe. 

He crouches down, one hand over his nose and mouth as the other digs into his chest.

-

Ash doesn’t find Eiji in the at the lounge. In fact, he sees Blanca with Golzine, face unreadable save the easy chuckles that sometimes split his face into a grin. It’s one that doesn’t reach his eyes, though. Blanca doesn’t put labels on men he doesn’t like; in fact, someone might actually think they’re company he enjoys the presence of, though the truth is far from that.

It’s the soft Japanese that eventually gives Eiji away—that hushed voice Ash is able to pick out when he wanders over to the restrooms. Eiji is video-calling someone, a small smile on his face. He laughs nervously, fingers tucking a thick curl behind his ear, but it just bounces forward again. 

A perk of having permanent bed head. Though Eiji himself probably hates it. 

Ash doesn’t want to intrude, but he also doesn’t want Eiji to feel like he doesn’t have anyone in this entire party, so Ash just steps in quietly, offering a curt wave and smile when Eiji looks up in surprise. 

There’s a visible wave of relief that washes over his face, some of the color coming back to it. He must have been lost just sitting there for eons while Ash tried desperately to finish playing and escape from the crowd that wanted to eat him up and confine him in that one area. He didn’t blame the guests; in fact, he knew meeting each one would give him more opportunities in the future, but now wasn’t the time to do that. 

He wasn’t about to spend the entire time laughing at jokes and talking about the campaign or what his plans were for the next few weeks. 

Someone in the video squeals, asking something in rapid Japanese to which Eiji promptly answers, finger over the “end” button. 

But Ash slides in at the last second, his curiosity getting the better of himself. He’s always been a little too forceful in situations and should probably respect people’s privacy, but that impulsive part of himself doesn’t really let him have a choice. For now, at least. 

He stares down at a girl who looks an awful lot like Eiji, though her hair is dyed light pink. It’s messy, but she has it pulled up into a half-bun that Ash decides is actually a good look. When she sees Ash, she immediately covers her face, saying “no” over and over again. 

“What?” Ash glances over at Eiji first, then back at the girl. “You look cute. Like a certain someone I know.” 

She only proceeds to cover her face but picks up her phone with her, Eiji’s screen abruptly turning black before a flash of images start blurring together. The sound of a door slamming open, then the girl’s voice enters the silence. Lights turn on, and when she turns the screen towards herself and two other people, Eiji drops the phone. 

It’s Ash who catches it, lurching forward to save it from completely shattering. When he turns to Eiji, wide-eyed, the boy won’t even look at him. 

“Ei-chan, what’s wrong?” 

“No, it’s just—” he lets out a sigh, face tight. “I-I thought I was prepared, but I don’t know. I, um, haven’t seen my parents in a while. Barely said hi even when I was at home since I didn’t really leave my room.” He interlocks his fingers together, squeezing. 

“But sometimes it’s good to face the unexpected, yeah? Go forth with something spontaneous?” 

Eiji seems to give in, hand out for his phone. He turns it over, the screen facing him. Ash scoots in a little more, arm pressing against Eiji’s shoulder. 

Even though it’s still seven o’ clock on a Sunday in Japan, Eiji’s family is still huddled up together, his sister sitting in between his parents on top of the blankets, arm out so her camera can capture everyone in one frame. 

“Um, I guess I should introduce you two first,” Eiji says first in English, then in Japanese. He knocks his shoulder lightly against Ash, eyes sliding up for a moment. “This is Ash. My sister’s name is Emika, but we all just call her Emi or Emi-chan, and these are my parents, Fumiko and Hisao Okumura.” Eiji pauses for a moment, switching his gaze to Ash. “We don’t, um, usually call each other by a first-name basis, but it’s fine if you do.” 

Before anyone can say anything else, Ash starts, inclining his head once with a smile. _“Hajimemashite.”_

Eiji freezes, those large eyes turning up to look at Ash again, but Ash only shrugs. “I’ve been learning some Japanese. I figured it’s fairer this way in case you ever talk shit about me with Ibe or something.” 

Face screwing up, Eiji nods at the screen. “You’re on camera, Ash. And I’d never do that.” 

“Well, I mean, the only two times you actually told me what was on your mind was when you were drunk and when you had that fever.” 

_”Ash,”_ Eiji hisses. “My dad actually knows a decent amount of English. He probably understands what you’re talking about.” 

Eiji’s dad currently half-asleep though, half of his face buried into his pillow, eyes heavily lidded behind round glasses that are sitting crooked on his nose. 

Nevertheless, Ash decides he should probably shut up and not be that one terrible person who absolutely trashes someone’s image in front of their parents. He’ll play the part of an angel today—just for Eiji.

-

They left before the event did—a full three hours before. Blanca would’ve asked Ash to stay for at least an hour longer, probably call a taxi for Eiji, but he surprisingly let them both go.

So now they’re here at Shorter’s place, Ash leaning against the black marble countertop as he watches Shorter drop freshly-made wontons into a pot of vegetable broth. He starts cutting up scallions so fast Ash honestly thinks he might actually slice a finger or two off but successfully evades that worst-case scenario when he sets the sliced scallions aside in a small bowl and grabs half a head of weirdly-shaped cabbage and begins chopping the hell out of that too. Or shredding, rather. Whatever people who cook call it. 

“Why are you making healthy things?” Ash mumbles, eyes following Shorter’s movements. 

“Nadia said Eiji isn’t eating that much, so I figured something light will go down better,” Shorter explains. 

Ash points at the mutilated vegetable in front of him. “What’s this cabbage thing? Does it taste good?”

“Napa,” Shorter says without missing a beat. He takes a moment to roll his sleeves up, converting his shirt into a tank. “And yeah, it tastes good. I’m the one who’s cooking it.” 

Ash just frowns, flicking a piece up by its leaves. 

“So, how’d it go?” Glancing up, Shorter flashes a grin. “With Eiji as your date?” 

The frown on Ash’s face deepens. “He accepted, but not without rejecting me. _Two fucking times.”_

Shorter raises a brow. “You know you’re contradicting yourself, right?” 

“He did it inadvertently. Said he likes platonic hand-holding and called me his friend.” 

“Hm. Maybe he’s demisexual.” 

“Or straight. Aromantic. Dense as fuck.” Sighing, Ash presses his cheek onto the counter, feeling the cold of it against his burning skin. “Sorry, I’m angry.” 

Shorter bobs his head up and down. “Of course you are.”

Ash sulks. “You don’t understand.”

“You’re unsure if the guy you like feels the same towards you.” Shorter dips a spoon into the pot, tasting it before putting the cap back over it. “At least one person walks in per day with the same story, getting so drunk over it that they don’t even notice when I start serving them water instead of alcohol. It’s either ugly, half-angry crying, heated rambling, or complete seething silence. So I tell them they should probably just go in and tell that person they love them. Straight-out.”

“Love is such a strong word, though.” 

“It’s not an infatuation, obsession, or flimsy crush when you start pouring your heart out to some random bartender,” Shorter says. He shakes his head. “They’re so gone. I’m always worried they might do something irrational if it doesn’t work out. Drunk people normally get super honest, but they’re also really reckless too.”

“Maybe you should stop telling them that.” A piece of Ash tightens up when he says those words, the next ones making the feeling worse. He knows he doesn’t mean them for real, but sometimes these kinds of thoughts slip out. Just ones from the shock of emotion he gets during nights like these. “Maybe it’s better to let that person go than to chase after them, you know? Maybe it’s better just to be single for the rest of your life so you don’t have to deal with possible rejection, breaking up, falling out of love, abandonment—that sort of thing.” 

“Might as well not love, huh?” Shorter’s already done with the wonton soup, rising off his cutting board and knife. He’s more organized than people think, cleaning and clearing his counter space constantly while he’s prepping food so he doesn’t have to deal with it all in the end. And Ash really admires him for that—for being so level-headed at the same time. For valuing a sense of order even if almost all the people around him are chaotic in nature. After everything he’s been through, it’s more than impressive. 

He’s earned everything he has in his own right. 

“Well, good luck with that because it’s hard not to love someone,” Shorter continues. “I’d say you’d probably just miss him even more after cutting off all ties. For most people, I’m sure distance and lack of communication for a good amount of time would do the trick, but, Ash, you’re the type who can’t let go. It’s been a month.” Shorter waves his hands in front of him. “You’re seriously so utterly whipped for the guy, okay? Just admit it and kiss him already or something.” 

That only makes Ash think about that small argument he and Eiji had the last time they were together. The way Ash saw it, saying that kissing someone doesn’t necessarily equal love, in some way, invalidated his feelings for Eiji. As if everything he does probably won’t really mean anything even if it’s done in earnest. Obviously, Eiji didn’t mean it that way, but it _felt_ like it. 

Ash knows you don’t have to kiss someone to obtain sexual gratification. You just fuck them and be done with it.

He’s never kissed anyone before, and that piece of him that’s still partially a child _won’t_ kiss someone unless he actually _loves_ them.

Ash never shows how vulnerable he is, and he sure as hell hates opening up about his feelings because of how hard it is for him to deal with them, so when he feels heat prick at his eyes, he wants to make a beeline to the elevator and escort himself out of the penthouse. “It’s not that simple.” 

Shorter catches on pretty quickly though and immediately takes a step back. “No, no, of course it isn’t. I’m being a generalizing asshole. Please ignore me.” He doesn’t say anything afterward, which Ash appreciates. 

And when Ash doesn’t feel like he’s made of eggshells anymore, he manages to pipe up, thought his voice a little rough. “Eiji’s been taking a long time in the bathroom.”

Letting out a breath of air, Shorter stops gripping the marble, opting to untie his apron and hang it back up where it’s supposed to be. “Sure is. Maybe he’s one of those people who like long baths.” He peeks at the clock just opposite to the kitchen. “Anyway, Nadia said she’d come over with something soon, though I’m unsure if she’s going to remember.” 

“Want me to text her?” 

“Nah, she’s on a date.”

“With Charlie?” 

“Mm, who else?” Shorter’s eyes flicker up, and he straightens. 

Ash turns, following his line of sight until he sees Eiji in one of Shorter’s hoodies, holding up sweats that are way too big on him against his waist. 

_Oh, fuck no—_

Head whipping back, Ash shoots daggers at Shorter. “What? Sing won’t let him borrow anything?” 

Shorter shrugs. “More like Sing is holed up in his room and refuses to come out, and I’m not about to bust inside and order another replacement door. Also, his clothes would be too tight on Eiji.” 

“Do you have pants with drawstrings?” Eiji bunches up the fabric, looking more concerned than anyone else in the room. 

Shorter offers an apologetic smile. “I always throw them out ‘cause I really hate them. You want a rubber band or something as a tie?” 

“Would you mind if I didn’t wear pants?” He pauses. “Would it be rude?” 

Blinking, Shorter gives Ash a look. “If you want, I honestly don’t mind. You’re free to dress the way you want.”

“Thank you. I usually wear my track shorts to sleep since it’s more comfortable.” Ash can’t even watch. He just hears fabric slipping off, the sound of Eiji folding it neatly. “Where should I put this?” 

Shorter motions in front of him. “On the couch is fine. I’ll put it away later.” 

“Oh, okay.” He pads over to the kitchen area, sliding into the stool next to Ash. There’s something in his eyes that seem on edge, some kind of troubled look he can’t get rid of. When Ash really thinks about it, Eiji probably stayed so long in the bathroom because he got lost in those thoughts and eventually lost track of time. 

He wonders if what happened earlier this afternoon is still on his mind. If having a panic attack in front of people is something he’s more sensitive than usual about. Ibe already briefed Ash the day they met that Eiji might have one, though he never said whether they were because of some specific trigger or if they normally just came unannounced. 

“You seem real tense, Eiji.” Shorter spoons the soup in two small bowls, placing them sowing in front of Ash and Eiji. “Something bothering you?”

“Oh, I’m fine.” But he’s not. Ash can tell by the way he just stares the food in front of him blankly, fingers still tangled in his lap, back straight. 

“I know I’ve already said this, but seriously make yourself at home,” Shorter says, leaning forward a little with sunshine still at his lips. “If you don’t wanna eat, don’t force yourself. Same goes with everything else; there’s no need for you to be super polite about it. Unless you’re more comfortable with that, of course.” He averts his eyes, letting out a breathy laugh. “And sorry if I’m a little less enthusiastic today; Sing’s been tiring me out a lot more lately.”

Eiji is genuinely surprised, head jerking up a little, eyes widening so Ash can see the entirety of his iris surrounded by white. “Shorter, I think we all might agree that we really don’t expect everyone to maintain the same kind of temperament. Everyone has their best quality, and yours is definitely the way you... sort of light up a room, but it’s not like you’re obliged to show that same face. You’ll wear yourself out even more if you do that.” 

Shorter scratches the back of his neck. “This from experience?” 

“If anything, I wouldn’t tell you this if it’s a lie.” 

“This is completely random, but—” Shorter sucks in a deep breath, head dipping below his shoulders as he lays his hands down flat across the marble counter. He’s stressed, and Ash is surprised he hasn’t even seen it in the guy. “—do you know how to deal with kids?” 

“I mean, I deal with Ash,” Eiji says, which immediately makes Ash want to defend himself, but he has to seal his mouth shut because he knows he won’t win in the end. 

Shorter wheezes, that characteristic laugh of his making a smile touch Eiji’s eyes too, and Ash takes solace in the fact that they can still fool around and be happy even though a creeping sense of unease is still gnawing at his side. 

He’ll deal with the thoughts swirling around in his mind later; right now, he just wants to live in the moment. 

No matter how cheesy that sounds.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!~
> 
> (And for waiting for me! I love reading your thoughts and theories and feedback. I always, always say this, but it means a whole lot to me. ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡)


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> If he’d just let it all go, he wonders how free he would feel. 
> 
> But no one ever lets this stuff go. Or, at least, he’s convinced normal people don’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry (x2934890800000) for not updating for eons. To be honest, I had one mentally scheduled two Fridays ago, but then I got super super super sick like I wanted to die (and I thought I might) so yeah. Dear god, I almost forgot what it feels like to be healthy. Worst pain I’ve ever experienced.

The lights are what get to him. The incessant and unnecessary attention focused on him in one flick of the wrist. Under any other circumstances, Eiji would have never agreed to do something like this, but he didn’t have much of a choice when they asked him to participate. If he refused, someone else on his team would get roped into the same situation. He didn’t want that, especially after all that guilt from the month before weighing down on him. 

In a way, he was too tired to refuse. Too tired to even look at the proposition logically and _know_ that at some point, it was probably going to turn out horribly at one point or another. 

So, now he’s standing in front of an impossibly large crowd of students, every single one of them staring back at him, a faint scattering of familiar faces across the masses, his teammates waiting on the side for him once he was done with this whole fundraiser. 

Eiji flinches away from the lights, wanting to take a step back and maybe just full-out run and hide in the curtains, but his feet were glued to the floor, his whole body shaking, heart at full speed, blood rushing in his ears. He swallows and tells himself he’s going to be fine, but the question that is left unanswered is _”how_ fine?” 

He steps forward when prompted by the over-enthusiastic auctioneer, following her gesture to offer a small bow and smile. They said this whole thing was solely for humor, but the low calls heard at the back of the audience and small tremble of laughter tells him otherwise. 

Eiji’s fingers dig into the cheap fabric of his dress, and in his peripheral, he sees one of his teammates turn to glare at someone, freezing for a moment before lurching forward. But his captain hooks his arms underneath his shoulders, holding him back while offering the person an apologetic bow.

_”It’s easy. Relax, smile, eat dinner with your patron, thank them, and join your teammates for the after-party. That’s all you need to do, no worries.”_

The words echo through Eiji’s mind as the auctioneer starts rambling. He’s elsewhere the entire time, barely looking out at the audience, eyes glued to the other side of half of the room where servers start setting down plastic dinner plates and faux silverware. He doubts the food is going to be any good; the whole thing is just for the sake of earning as much money for his team as possible. 

Claps fill the air, cueing Eiji’s turn to leave the stage as another athlete dressed in women's clothes strides past him confidently. He’s wearing an extremely revealing slip, backless with a slit running up mid-thigh. The thin spaghetti straps are tiny compared to his broad shoulders, rayon straining against his chest, and yet the boy is literally beaming on stage as the students below erupt in laughter.

If this is supposed to be funny, why doesn’t he feel lighter? 

“Don’t worry about it,” the boy in front of him says, combing his fingers through his wavy locks. He looks strikingly familiar with his dainty features and small stature, but Eiji can’t put his finger on _who_ he is at the moment. There’s a discarded wig on the floor, right underneath his heels. He looks up at Eiji through thick lashes, swiping a gloved hand across his mouth to get rid of the bright red lipstick he has on. It smears across half his cheek, but he doesn’t even seem to care. “I always get pulled into doing this because no one else on my team has the guts to do it.” Rolling his eyes, he sighs in annoyance. “Yeah, leave it to the libero to save all their asses.” He holds his arms out. “Can you help me with this?” 

Blinking, Eiji pulls each glove off before handing it back to the boy, but he just throws it over his shoulder. He leans over to gather a section of his skirt before hiking it all the way past his knees. 

_“God,_ it’s so hot back here.” He says. There’s an extended moment of silence between them. Eiji hasn’t even said a word since he came here. The boy pauses, turning to stare at him. “Just saying, if your date gets handsy and starts touching you weirdly, no one will yell at you if you break their wrist and ditch them right after—girl or guy, doesn’t matter. It’s just a stupid fundraiser for people with perverted tastes.”

Eiji would never do that but he just nods anyway, fingers locked together. The tips blanch white, throbbing from the pressure, but he hardly even notices. “O-okay.” 

The boy reaches up, patting the top of Eiji’s head. “So don’t look so nervous. Your captain won’t let anything happen to you, I promise. He would’ve definitely volunteered to do this instead of you, but I told him I’d kill him if he did.” He offers Eiji an innocent smile. “Sorry about that.” 

Fingers tightening, Eiji shakes his head. It’s obviously an insincere apology, but he doesn’t even care about that right now. “It’s fine.”

“But it isn’t,” the boy says. His eyes flicker away for a half-second in concern, barely noticeable but enough to catch Eiji’s eye. “And I meant what I said about touchy dates. You understand?”

“Yeah.” But Eiji can’t even hear himself.

-

The first thing Eiji notices is the fact that he’s surrounded by swaths of black silk, soft against his skin. A massive light fixture hands above in a full circle, metal casing black without the illumination of light across its usual gray surface. Gauzy curtains are pulled across floor-to-ceiling windows, thin enough that Eiji can still see the night below, light sparkling across the landscape like sprinkles on top of cake. It’s a sight he’ll never get used to. Just like how the waves back at home never ceased to leave him breathless whenever he went there at night.

It’s only after he’s taken in his surroundings that he can finally let out the breath of air he’s been holding it. 

It comes out more forcefully than he intended, and his heart pounds from the lack of respiration. His skin feels cold, goosebumps running from his elbow up to his shoulder despite the fact that he’s wearing Shorter’s sweatshirt. In fact, the entire room feels colder than it was last night. 

Eiji wonders if it’s because of what has happened lately. The run-in by Golzine. Ash finding him when he was in the middle of video-calling his sister. Seeing his parents for that long in months. Heavy guilt bites at him for realizing so late that he hasn’t even really spoken to his parents for so long.

Emi is usually the first one to know if something is up with him, but his parents are the last. Eiji doesn’t know if it’s because both of them are busy with work or if it’s because he’s been purposefully avoiding them for the longest time. 

He realizes he’s been too distant with them for years already—staring in high school when his mom decided to go back to work once Emi was in her last year of grade school. 

Pressing his lips together, Eiji suppresses the heat that pricks at his eyes, the feeling of his throat constricting, his breaths coming out in hiccups.

He’s been an emotional mess. 

And he can’t even tell anyone without making them worry more than they already are. 

He barely even knew Ibe before this trip, but the man literally turns white as a sheet whenever the slightest thing happens to Eiji, and quite frankly, he doesn’t want to become a heavier burden than he already is. It sounds completely selfish and ungrateful—to not want to accept the kindness and help other people offer him so easily, but a part of Eiji tells him it’s okay to do this. Because relying too much on people is just going to burn them out even faster.

It’s just going to turn them into one of those matches that can’t even last five seconds before the flame reaches the end of the stick.

Cupping his hands against his mouth, Eiji leans over, fringe brushing against the dark sheets.

He stays like that for a few minutes, making sure his breathing is regular, the sleeve of Shorter’s sweatshirt pressed against his eyes, catching the half-tears that well up at his waterline.

Eiji tells himself that this is good. That this is _progress._ He’s not numb or an empty shell—he _feels,_ and it’s a good thing. It’s easier to mask how you really feel when your brain actually works. When it has enough serotonin and dopamine going through it instead of being unresponsive because of the negative symptoms of depression.

When he’s not shaking anymore, Eiji slides off the bed, bare feet hitting the wood softly. He’s about to walk into the kitchen when the lights suddenly flicker on and someone dims them down to almost nothing.

“Ash and Eiji are still sleeping,” he hears Shorter whisper.

“It’s five in the morning. Of course they are.” 

Eiji backs away, hands reaching for that distinctive corner of the wall that tells him he’s back in the bedroom he woke up in. He’s used to the idea of rooms. The open-concept is familiar, but his family always kept the wooden screen dividers shut across each section of their house.

Shorter’s penthouse didn’t actually have many doors. The whole place feels endless even though it isn’t necessarily massive, high-ceilings and a curving staircase from the foyer to a few rooms and a loft above. A cement wall separates the first floor slightly as it only stretched on to accommodate the TV mounted on the other side and part of the staircase above. The metal around the place reflects the glass and light scattered throughout, the dark theme wrapping it in what feels like infinity.

Even now, Eiji can’t help but notice all the details. It isn’t until the second voice pipes up again that he notices it’s Nadia who's speaking.

“Can’t sleep?”

“Just—a few things about those two are off.”

“Ash and Eiji?”

Shorter rocks back on his heels, and Eiji catches a glimpse of him nodding. “Yeah. Like they’re both going through something hard. Mentally, I mean. I don’t know much about Eiji, but I wonder if Ash a starting to regret leaving those kids back with Golzine.”

Nadia’s voice is hushed but unwavering. “As much as I hate the words that are going to come out of my mouth, there really wasn’t anything he could do, Shorter. You know he looked out for them like they were his family. When Golzine found out about his plans—the gang he formed, the connections he already had, his _intent_ for making that bastard pay for what he’s running, he couldn’t stay.”

“Blanca convinced Golzine to give him up. Let him go as their innocent poster boy or risk an upheaval, right?”

A sigh breaks through the air, glass clinking on the marble countertop. “Children are dangerous little things—I’ll give you that, but I think it’s more than that.”

“You think Golzine is coming back to get Ash.”

“I mean, it’s a _hypothetical.”_

“Nadia—“

“Look, I’m just… I’m just _worried,_ okay? It’s not like anyone ever tells me what’s going on. I never know what the hell is happening.”

There’s a long pause. A dangerously long pause that makes Eiji start gnawing on his bottom lip.

“Is this about dad again?” Shorter’s low voice trembles, and it rises sharply. “I didn’t tell you what happened ‘cause it’ll break you—“

“No— _you’re_ the one who thinks I can’t handle it, Shorter.”

Eiji shrinks away. It’s getting too personal. This is information he shouldn’t be hearing right now. He’s about to go back to the bedroom and pull the sheets over his head when Shorter lets out a broken laugh. It’s very quiet, very unlike his usual self. But it draws out the deep tenor of his voice, the vibrations rumbling in the empty space between them all.

He can hear Nadia swallow. “I’m—“

“I promise I’ll tell you,” Shorter interrupts. “I’m all stressed over Sing.. Ash is going through something really important right now that I can’t just sit on the sidelines to watch. And Eiji… he’s quiet and polite and oddly _blank_ at times that I can’t help but think something’s going on. It’s the second time I’ve seen him, but I… he looks like one of those people who order a fancy cocktail but never even touch it because they’re too lost in their thoughts.”

“You worry too much.”

“We all do.”

“But, hey, misery likes company, hm? We’ll help each other out.”

“Wish it didn’t. I need some sunshine. Night’s been lasting for eons.”

“Oh, come on.” There’s the sound of clothes rustling. Nadia’s voice is muffled when she speaks. “You’re that sunshine. If Sing is bothering you that much, make him come over to my house. Charlie will keep him under watch.”

“That man is gonna get crushed by a little fifteen-year-old,” Shorter says. “Sing’ll be the death of him.”

“Whenever you want. I’ll drag him over if I need to. Charlie can’t hate me.”

“Charlie can’t hate anyone.”

Nadia laughs softly. “Of course. So about the cake—“

“Don’t tell me they don’t have it anymore.”

“No, of course I got it. It’s in the bag.” She paused. “I just… don’t know if it’ll bring up bad memories.”

“I’ll hug him if he cries.”

“Oh, that would never happen. Sing would rather gouge out his eyes than shed a single tear.“

To which Shorter can’t help but snort, chuckles hidden muffled behind his hand while Nadia chides that everyone is still asleep. 

Eiji is turning around, ready to lay back in bed pretending to be asleep until seven when he sees someone on the stairs, arms propped on the metal railing. He’s tiny, dwarfed by the baggy pullover he has on over biker shorts. Baby wisps of hair stick straight up over his forehead in disarray as two pairs of dark eyes watch Eiji. He doesn’t even look surprised to see Eiji eavesdropping or even guilty of doing so himself. The only thing he does is point at the corner of his eyes before going back up the stairs, the door to his bedroom shutting behind him.

It’s Sing. Definitely Sing. The younger, mischievous cousin both Nadia and Ash sometimes complain about every now and then.

He looks innocent enough. Cute, even—like one of the kids Eiji used to look after, but there’s an aura of maturity around him. Other kids would have perhaps blurted out that Eiji was listening to Nadia and Shorter’s conversation secretly. Sing just stood there listening as well before leaving. 

Eiji wonders if him pointing at his eyes meant he was watching Eiji the entire time, but when he passes by a small mirror sitting on one of the small drawers in the room he slept in, he sees puffy eyes rimmed with red. He must have irritated it after rubbing at it so many times before.

He’s just surprised Sing could see his face that well even when the lights were all off save the light from the kitchen and the bright cast of the city below. 

Pressing cold fingers to his eyes, he lets out a small sigh, head tilted slightly back. They feel warm underneath, a little gritty from a general lack of sleep. 

Eiji wonders if everything he’s doing actually works. If all the small smiles and the typically quiet disposition he holds makes him out to be someone people worry about. Because everything he does seems to only rouse questions. The people around him are still concerned—not that he never knew until now. Last night was the second time Shorter asked if he was fine. That’s a modest amount considering the number of times Max and Ibe have raised the question. It’s just that… he _thought_ he was doing a good job of not making everything obvious.

He’s healing—yes, but he prefers if it’s done by himself. He doesn’t want anyone else’s input. It’s an unnecessary weight on their part. 

Biting the bottom of his lip, Eiji shakes his head. _Hypocrite._

Because now he’s worrying about Ash. About the so-called “gang” he created. About the kids he tried to save and the types of connections he made before being pulled out of the agency altogether. And even when he’s pulling the covers over him again, rolling on his side to stare out at the city, curtains a thin veil between him and the uncovered sight of it all, he can’t stop thinking about Ash. 

Over and over and over again.

Like a memory he wants to forget but never will.

-

When Sing arrives at Yut Lung’s apartment, it’s quiet. Dead quiet with all the lights still off.

The only thing that’s on is a candle reaching its end, melted wax pooled around the base of the mushroomed wick. Some have already solidified again, hugging the metal casing. Most likely than not, Yut Lung probably forgot to blow it out before going to sleep. In any case, it smells somewhat like smoke, the burning scent no doubt from the overused candle masking the jasmine lingering in the room. 

Whipping his hand through the air, Sing leans over to stare at the soot around the candle before plopping down on the living room couch. It’s already eight in the morning which is apparently the time Yut Lung wanted him to come over today, but the guy isn’t even up yet. Assuming he’s not sitting in the tub or lying in bed staring up at the ceiling. Which he might actually be doing right now since he seriously seems like the type of person to lazy around.

Sing waits for a solid ten minutes before promptly getting out of his seat. His dad was the one who was always painfully coolheaded in front of people; Sing is more like his mom in every aspect: harsh and impatient—the type of person who doesn’t take crap no matter who they are facing. 

The kind of end she met wasn’t one she was deserving of, but his dad...

Sing’s fingers tighten just a fraction.

If he’d just acted a little more like a boss than a friend, he wouldn’t have gotten his whole family into that mess.

Taking a hand out of his pocket, Sing swings the door to Yut-Lung’s room open. Or rather, he slams it open, the handle making such a loud bang against drywall that he hopes it didn’t accidentally puncture through. 

Though the Lee family definitely has enough money to repair the drywalls of probably every single resident of New York City. Fixing Yut-Lung’s wouldn’t be a problem at all.

Sing is about to walk over and drag Yut-Lung out of the room himself when an older man rises up from behind Yut-Lung, clearly very naked except for the white sheets that are covering him waist-down. 

He’s rough-looking, slight stubble at his jaw, dark hair long enough that it’s starting to look unkempt. Age has already started to take a hold of him, carving lines through his face and around the frown he currently has on. Sing isn’t stupid; it just takes him a while to understand everything when it’s blown at him straight-up with no warning or censor.

Yut-Lung takes his sweet time rising even when the man starts buttoning his shirt on, though still sitting on the bed like he’s too embarrassed to actually stand and uncover himself for a second. 

_Probably has a small ass dick,_ Sing scoffs.

When Yut-Lung finally gets a hold of himself, sleep fading away, he squints at Sing, then fixes his eyes on the man who is now pulling his trousers up over his button-down. It’s not a nice way of regarding someone despite the kind of thing the two have engaged in last night.

The evidence, though practically nonexistent on the man, is all over Yut-Lung’s pale skin. Dark purple bruises pepper it, red bite marks accompanying the purple in an angry swarm. There are rings around Yut-Lung’s tiny wrists, extending up to his elbows. 

Sing knows there are people who like this sort of play, but it makes him wonder why people ever called it “making love” in the first place. Maybe he really is pure at heart, but he’s always thought lovers were supposed to be gentle with each other and treat each other’s bodies like the holy grail or something. Then again, this man probably isn’t Yut-Lung’s partner. Not even “probably”—he just isn’t. Anyone would notice that from a mile away.

Shoving the covers off of himself, Yut-Lung steps out of bed only to crumple for a moment before straightening himself with a huff, hand flipping his long hair back away from his face. It's literally free from any tangles, the strands silky-smooth over narrow shoulders. Sing stares, slightly impressed at how beautiful he still looks in the morning. Especially after whatever the heck it is he did with that man.

Completely ignoring Sing’s entire existence, Yut-Lung continues to storm across his room with zero regard for anyone, whipping the doors of his dresser open to grab the first silk robe he sees. He shrugs it on, then turns sharply to the man who is busy putting his tie back on. For someone who looks like they don’t even hold a job, the man seems to know how to cover his tracks up well. And clean-up well, it seems. Despite the fact that he just spent the night screwing someone and hasn’t taken a shower or gotten a proper change of clothes.

“Have I ever not made myself clear? People I fuck don’t get to sleep in my bed,” Yut-Lung hisses at him in Cantonese. “You might be someone I invited in willingly—unlike those I have to please because of my brother’s orders—but that doesn’t make you special nor does it mean you’re getting any special treatment from me.”

As much as Sing wants to blurt out—in irritation—that he can actually understand Cantonese even when he never grew up learning it, he doesn’t. All Yut-Lung knows is that his entire extended family, as well as their connections, only speak Mandarin Chinese, and it’s all he needs to know—nothing more.

The man sighs, not making eye-contact as he continues to smooth out the wrinkles in his shirt. “If you want me to continue to come, I make my own rules. You’re the one who needs to follow them obediently.”

Yut-Lung’s jaw clenches. Hell, Sing’s do too, but he lets that initial anger go before anyone notices, turning his head away.

“You tell me you don’t want me to stay every time, but what kind of partner leaves their lover right after sex?”

“The kind who knows their place, that’s what,” Yut-Lung growls. “You’re not my lover, you fucking idiot. You don’t even come _close_ to calling yourself that.”

”I’m not? Then who’s that boy over there?” The man nods his head at Sing, and Sing has to make a huge effort to keep the clueless face he has on. “Yours? Or should I take him for myself since you’re so unwilling to be mine?”

“He’s not into the shit you like.” Yut-Lung clenches his teeth together, but the tension leaves as he presses a few fingers to his temple. “Just—please leave while I’m asking nicely.”

“Being polite doesn’t work on me unless we’re in bed.”

 _”Get the fuck out,”_ Yut-Lung says darkly. 

It’s enough to make the man budge. He doesn’t even spare a glance at Sing, breezing past like nothing ever happened. 

His appearance doesn’t peg him as the type who would actually dress so consciously and speak so egotistically, so Sing assumes the man’s the type who needs to shave religiously every morning. And that he probably puts his hair up with pomade or something. But even so—no one gave him the right to talk like people are objects that need to be possessed. 

The whole thing just makes Sing’s hair stand on edge. Makes him want to punch a hole in the wall because of how wrong it sounds and how uncomfortable it makes him feel.

“So? Who gave you permission to come over so early in the morning?” Arms crossed over his chest, Yut-Lung leans across the door frame.

Sing shows him the text from a few days ago. “You forgot?”

Yut-Lung stares at the screen, unconvinced. “Perhaps.”

“So you did.”

Narrowing his eyes, Yut-Lung walks past him toward the kitchen, grabbing the unfinished glass of wine from the countertop so quickly the liquid almost sloshes over the edge. But he hesitates for a moment before setting it down.

“Were you arguing with your boyfriend or something?” Yut-Lung shoots him a look, but Sing only shrugs, feigning ignorance. “I mean, all Cantonese sounds harsh and angry to me no matter what people are saying. Why name your son ‘Yut-Lung’ when ‘Yue-Long sounds better, right? And getting rid of the ‘long’ makes you… less _snakey,_ I guess.”

“I let you call me however you like because I don’t care, not because I dislike my mother tongue and my name.”

Sing watches him closely. His movements are all natural. Yut-Lung is quick to switch moods, but he’s definitely not the type to let the past go. “You don’t hate being a Lee despite what they did to your mom?”

After setting a kettle on top of the stove, Yut-Lung opens one of the cabinets above. It’s completely bare except for a few small tea boxes and a set sitting on a wooden tray that he pulls out and sets to the side. “Feelings are negligible in that aspect. In the end, I _am_ one of them, aren’t I? Flesh and blood, born full-fledged as one as compared to my mother who married into the family.”

“I don’t think blood matters,” Sing says, glancing down at his hands. They feel too bare without his fingerless gloves; he doesn’t know why he’s been forgetting to put them on recently. “Who cares who you’re related to? Just ‘cause you have the same name and the same DNA doesn’t mean that’s suddenly all you are. It doesn’t mean you _can’t_ hate them.”

 _“Sing,”_ Yut-Lung starts, the emphasis heavy on his name. “I never said I _don’t_ hate my family, nor did I ever say I _like_ being a Lee.” 

Screwing up his face, Sing shakes his head. “I don’t get you. Just say stuff straight-out if you don’t want people to misunderstand.”

“I don’t expect you to understand.” 

“Probably won’t ever.” 

There’s a tick on Yut-Lung’s jaw, and he hardly masks it when he puts on a sweet smile. “Tea?” 

Sing shrugs. He hasn’t had anything to eat ever since the afternoon before, but he somehow doesn’t even feel hungry. Now that he thinks about it, he hasn’t really eaten that much as of late, always skipping out on breakfast and dinner even when Shorter already has it all made. Probably why he hasn’t grown past Shorter’s shoulder even after hitting fifteen. Everyone else around him is already stretched out like string beans, all lanky with long arms and long legs. Even Yut-Lung has a few good inches on him. “Sure. You got like sandwiches or something to go with it?”

Wordlessly, Yut-Lung opens up his fridge and pulls what looks like egg salad and a bag of lettuce out. When he’s done with a sandwich, he hands it over to Sing who takes a tentative bite out of it.

Yut-Lung puts the knife in his mouth, licking it clean of egg salad. “I didn’t poison it if that’s what you’re worried about.”

“Nah, you could’ve killed me already if you wanted to,” Sing says. Before, he was a lot more guarded. He doesn’t trust the Lee family, and after what they did to his family, he won’t ever forgive them, but Yut-Lung wouldn’t gain anything if he decided he wanted to do away with him. “Just checking to see if it tastes horrible. You don’t seem like the kind of person who’d be a good cook.” 

Yut-Lung blinks. “Who messes up an egg salad sandwich?”

“People who don’t know what the hell they’re doing in a kitchen.” Sing holds up the sandwich. “Yours is good though.” 

“Everything else aside, I assume you came here because you have something of note?” 

“More like _’somethings,’_ ” Sing points out. “Though, honestly, I’m not really surprised.” 

Raising a brow, Yut-Lung props his elbows up on the counter, head tilting to the side, prompting him to continue. 

“Well, Ash and Eiji are in love. Ash knows he’s gone for Eiji but doesn’t actually know the guy feels the same way. Eiji isn’t even _aware_ he has feelings.” Sing pauses. “I kind of want to yell at him.” 

“And?” Yut-Lung sounds annoyed.

“This morning, I found Eiji listening in on my cousins’ conversation.” Looking away, Sing drums his fingers on the counter. “He doesn’t seem like the type who would usually invade others’ privacy, but they _were_ talking about Ash, so.”

“About what, exactly?” 

“His fallout with Golzine. That gang he created within the agency—stuff we both already know about.” 

“Hm. Did he know you were watching him?” 

“I made it obvious,” Sing says. “Sat on the stairs and waited until he turned around. He cried. Maybe woke up from a bad dream or something.” 

“Okay.” 

The question swirling around in Sing’s mind for quite a while now hasn’t been answered. Yut-Lung was very neutral in the way he responded to this sort of information—like he was sifting through every single one and storing them in their respective mental files. But Sing has a conscience, and he doesn’t want to continue doing this if it means hurting nice people. Screw being a goodie-two-shoes. It’s just plain disrespectful to spy on people without it actually being for a good reason. Sing has his own reasons as to why he’s still keeping contact with Yut-Lung, and Yut-Lung is using him out of convenience, but that still leaves a whole lot in the dark. 

“If you’re gonna use this stuff against them—”

“As I’ve mentioned, I don’t plan to,” Yut-Lung interrupts. “Ash is insufferable, but I don’t care about him or his relationship with that boy, Eiji. It’s personal.” 

“Better be.”

Sing’s other phone vibrates in his pocket. He doesn’t even need to take it out to know it’s Shorter who’s asking him to come back. Cramming the rest of the sandwich in his mouth, he hops off the chair and makes his leave. “Thanks for the tea and the sandwich,” he says with a half-smile. “I’ll cook for you later if I ever have the chance.” 

Yut-Lung isn’t a bad person, but Sing can’t help but partially blame him for what happened to his parents and his uncle.

If he’d just let it all go, he wonders how free he would feel. 

But no one ever lets this stuff go. Or, at least, he’s convinced normal people don’t. 

The hot anger that nearly evaporated his blood the first time he walked into Yut-Lung’s apartment fizzled out so fast he thought he might faint, and it hasn’t come back. And it’s stupid, but he wants a reason to hate the guy. To really, _really_ hate him to the point where he can’t even stand to look at his face. To the point where he can get revenge without his reasonable self telling him he’s just gonna shift the consequences onto the rest of his family. 

Though, as it stands, history probably won’t repeat itself. Sing knows he isn’t the kind of person who gets too lost in his own selfish desires.

-

“And where have you been all morning?” 

Shorter doesn’t ask him this seriously; it’s more so playful. Everyone acknowledges the fact that Sing vanishes on Sunday mornings and doesn’t come back until nighttime unless he has a reason to. Or unless he’s up to actually listening to his cousins. 

“Out.” 

“Of course.” Shorter nods. “‘Out.’” 

“At a friend’s place.” 

“Do I know this ‘friend’?” 

“Maybe. He doesn’t invite me to reckless events if you’re wondering. We just sit and talk.” Sing gazes blankly at the wall across from him. “He also makes a good egg salad sandwich.” 

“Okay.” Shorter doesn’t really know how to respond, and it’s fine because if Sing were in his shoes, it’d probably be the most random thing he’s heard in a while. “Ash and Eiji left earlier. Asked me to wish you a happy birthday.” 

Not Ash. Eiji is probably the only one who actually said that. “I’ll tell them thanks the next time I see them.” 

“So… cake.” 

Sing lifts himself onto one of the stools. Nadia offers him a small smile to which he returns with a tight one. He knows what’s coming even though it’s supposed to be a surprise. He overheard them this morning, after all. “Did you make it this time?” 

Shorter forces a laugh. He’s nervous. Obviously. “No, no. You know I can’t bake. It’s, uh, bought. From a bakery.” 

“Yup.” 

A full minute passes by in silence. Nadia, who typically breaks it up and lightens the mood, doesn’t even budge. She has her eyes fixed on Shorter. 

“Okay.” Shorter lets out a breath of air. “It’s been established that I suck at this stuff.” Opening the fridge, he pulls out a cake covered in white frosting. A cute orange lion is piped in the center, tiny next to a chocolate sign that says “Happy Birthday,” decorated with a chocolate mane and everything. The cake his dad used to buy him every single year. “Please don’t hate me. It’s just that… I…” 

While he’s grappling with what to say, Sing honestly can’t say anything at the moment either. He has mentally prepared for this. He _knew_ Shorter planned this with the help of Nadia, but it still gets to him—more than it should. 

The kids in Chinatown used to make fun of his name. They’d say his parents feel somehow “guilty” for having him. That they didn’t know their son would turn out to be a “demon.” And while there’s a good amount of children who might be horrible little demons, Sing was more so the type that did as he was told. Despite his dad being the head of what was then the Chinese mafia, it wasn’t as if he dabbled in depraved activities nor did Sing’s disposition ever reflect what most people thought it would be like.

But, of course, those remarks used to get at him all the time. So his dad would always call him his little “lion” and tell everyone that he was going to grow up to be a good man like the son he already was.

Sing just stares at the cake. He knows that when you cut into it, it’s the best chocolate sponge you’ll get. 

He wants to be troublesome. He wants to be reckless at times and make his cousins hate him for being a so-called rebellious teen. But all the things he _feels_ doesn’t even match up with his outward character. Trying so hard to be _bad_ when he really isn’t is actually tiring him out. 

Shorter looks expectantly at him.

“You’re not—” Sing breaks off, licking his lips. “Shorter, you’re not my dad.” 

“Oh god,” he hears Nadia mumble. 

“But thanks.” He breathes in, embarrassed that his voice is shaking at the edges. “For this. And-and I guess for everything else.” He looks down as Shorter rounds the marble bar top. _I said it. Thank god I didn’t screw it up, but now I wanna leave—_

Nadia wraps her arm around his shoulders from beside him, and Shorter does so too on the other side, leaning in so Sing fits snugly against his chest. 

Sing’s throat constricts, and he doesn’t remember feeling like this for a long time. Not since the Lee family murdered his parents and thought it’d be fun to bury Nadia and Shorter’s too. 

“I don’t deserve this,” Sing whispers, pressing the palms of his hands into his eyes. “I make people miserable.”

Shorter‘s arms tighten. “Let’s just blame it on your hormones.”

“I stress you out, and I play stupid pranks on Nadia—“

“Oh, so _now_ you don’t deny it,” she says.

 _”God,_ I suck.”

“We all suck at some point of our lives. Nadia particularly sucks right now.”

“Fuck you, Shorter.”

“Mm-mm. We don’t curse in here.”

Nadia makes a noise at the back of her throat. “How are you so sensitive about this sort of thing when in high school you used to—“

“Or dig up past dirt that doesn’t matter anymore.”

“It’s called _getting old,_ Shorter.” 

Nadia sits back, and Sing just stays quiet, the ache that settled in his chest still there but overlaid by slight annoyance. Two adults bickering. Again.

“I just don’t give a fuck anymore. I used to be all calm and collected all the time, but who the hell am I kidding?” She laughs. “It just builds up inside until you can’t fucking take it anymore.”

Shorter‘s brows come together. “What the heck happened to _you?”_

“Charlie proposed last night,” Nadia blurts out. “I told him I can’t.”

_Oh. Okay._

Pushing Shorter away, Sing steps off the stool to grab a knife from behind the counter and cuts himself a generous portion before adding two other small pieces onto his place. Cream gets on his finger in the process, but he licks it clean, eyes flickering up to watch the scene in front of him.

“What?” Stiffening, Shorter takes a step back like he’s the one who received the rejection. “Why would you—“

Nadia looks like she might actually cry. “Because his parents are traditional, and like I’ve said a thousand times before, they don’t approve of him being in a relationship with someone they didn’t hand-pick for him. You know he blew off his supposed fiancée to go out with me. His parents nearly had a heart attack then, they definitely had one when we moved in with each other a year ago, and they’ll probably die of shock if we get married.”

“By your philosophy, screw them, right?” Sing stabs his fork into his slice of cake, popping the forkful into his mouth before going for another. “You love him. Charlie obviously loves you, and you two make each other happy for the most part. So elope if you gotta. Not like you need their permission to marry. _I_ won’t be asking for yours or Shorter’s when I decide who I want to spend the rest of my life with.”

Shorter chokes, turning around for a second to cover his mouth with a fist. 

“Anyway, I’m going upstairs. Don’t argue over who gets the bigger slice of the cake.” He gives her a half-hug, then offers one to Shorter.

There’s complete silence before they start talking again, this time in hushed tones.

Sing closes the door behind him, fork in his mouth, then plops onto his bed, scooting all the way back so his legs are dangling off the side. When he’s down with the cake, he places the other two small slices in front of the framed portrait of his family Shorter brought over from their tiny apartment. 

He just stares at the picture for a while, then falls back, the mattress bouncing back up behind him. 

Sing misses them. Violently, even, but he won’t say.

He never will, because he’s learned it only makes the pain more tangible.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!!!! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
> 
> (And for leaving such kind, lovely, constructive, and interestingly speculative comments that make me feel all warm and happy inside. Lets me know you all are enjoying and/or curious about what happens next.
> 
> ...but damn. Almost everyone is hurting in this fic. Why do I do this to them and whydoIdothistomyself—)


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I won’t.” Eiji looks down at his hands as if to check to see if they just might be transparent. “I’m solid, aren’t I? Human beings don’t disappear like fog.”
> 
> “But they _do.”_ When Ash says it, it sounds like the saddest thing in the world. And maybe to him it is, but Eiji doesn’t know.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a bit of a shaky chapter... whenever I tried to edit, I just couldn't get it to flow/go the way I wanted it to. My apologies in advance!

“Do you not have plans with friends? Homework? Things normal high school students do when they’re done with school for the day?”

Sing throws a blank look over his shoulder, shoving a piece of chicken in his mouth for a taste. _Mm. Good._ “I can go wherever I want to go, and in case you haven’t noticed, neither of us are ‘normal high school students.’ Especially you.”

Yut-Lung blinks back at him from the couch, resting the side of his face on his arm. There’s a feline nature about him that makes it hard for Sing not to stare whenever he’s in the room.

Yut-Lung walked with elegance, sat with elegance. Hell, he ate things in this dark seductive way that seriously makes Sing question his own sexuality. Whatever that is. Though, looking at everything as a whole, Yut-Lung isn’t a cat, but rather a snake. One who disguises himself as someone harmless, but the first to make their move and manipulate others to sin as well.

It’s all based on personal opinion, but Sing likes to think that he’s somewhat immune to that sort of thing. He’s not the Adam and Eve who give in to that serpent's words. He doesn’t seek power or truth or enlightenment. If anything, he’s hardly capable of doing something like that. His morals are way too heaven-bent and pure, although he’ll never admit it.

“I have a tutor,” Yut-Lung says, examining his nails. “I am a student.”

“Not a normal one.”

“‘Norms’ are silly constructs by society.”

“Still,” Sing argues, “if they’re there, it makes them something.”

“That neither one of us are going to follow, obviously.”

Placing the chicken in a bowl, Sing wipes his hands on the apron tied around his waist before carrying it to the coffee table in front of Yut-Lung. “Also, it might surprise you, but the only thing not ‘normal’ about me as a student is the fact that I have some negative disciplinary marks on my record. Other than that, my grades are pretty good—average-wise—and I do all my work.”

Yut-Lung raises a brow. “You look stupid.”

The blatant insult doesn’t get to him at all. “Nah, Shorter would have my head if I didn’t at least excel in academics. I guess he just doesn’t want me to flunk out like he did.”

“It’s warming up considerably, and you’re still wearing the same oversized sweatshirt I see you with.” His eyes lower to silently regard Sing’s hands. “And gloves.”

It’s something Sing always gets—those questions on why he always has on a sweatshirt or hoodie year-round. Not like he’s ever going to tell anyone why, though. “It’s a security blanket… or something like that.”

“Hm.” Sliding off the couch, Yut-Lung gingerly sits down on the floor, grabbing a set of silver chopsticks and a bowl Sing put out prior to cooking. “If this doesn’t taste good, I’m not letting you come in as you please again.”

“Well, it’s not _your_ egg salad, but a dish I learned after watching my dad fifteen-million times. Since he didn’t know how to make anything else.”

“You’re not sick of eating it?”

“What do you mean?” Sing points his chopsticks at him, a sliver of a grin at the corners of his lips. The smell of it takes him back home to his happy place, but it also pricks at his heart. He’s lucky he got used to the feeling enough not to let it show too much on his face. “Unlike you, I don’t have daddy issues. I’ll gladly eat the food the people I love give me.”

Yut-Lung stops mid-bite. “Does it really bother you that the men I sleep with are double my age?”

“I meant your _dad._ Your _old man,_ dear god.”

“Well, at least he’s dead,” Yut-Lung says. “But you have yours.”

“Yeah.” Sing makes sure his half-grin doesn’t waver. “I have mine.”

-

Eiji honestly just wants to stay in bed for the entire day. 

It’s been a few days since he last saw Ash, but he hasn’t once stopped thinking about him for a second. Yesterday afternoon when he went out with Ibe to go to the solo show of a friend, he couldn’t help but wonder if every boy with slightly long blond hair was Ash. 

Some of the people he stared down in the subway probably thought he was some weird Japanese person out to get them. He’s lucky they never called over security to report a suspicious person.

Rolling over to the other side, Eiji grabs the pillow that fell onto the floor sometime during the night and wraps his arms around it, squeezing. It fluffs out against his face, soft cotton muffling the half-scream he lets out into it. 

It’s only twelve in the afternoon, but he already wishes it was midnight. 

Time passes by so excruciatingly slow.

The door to his room cracks open a little bit, hinges creaking, and Ibe pops his head in, concern written across his face. Eiji stares back at him upside down, head hanging off the side of his bed, the pillow still clutched against his chest. 

“Um… Ei-chan? Are you okay?” 

_No._ “Yes.” 

“Are you tired today? Was your insomnia very bad? Did you run out of pills?”

“I’m just…” Eiji’s eyes flicker back at the ceiling. Then, he slowly pushes himself up with his elbows, neatly putting the pillow back at the head of his bed before yanking his blanket from underneath him. He starts folding it, lips pressing together. “I’ll be up in a bit, Ibe-san. Sorry for the distraction.” 

“You don’t have to apologize, Ei-chan,” Ibe says. “I just wanted to let you know I have a short session Max set me up for. He told me it will not take too long, but I may not come back until dinnertime.”

Eiji slides off his bed, fingers brushing his bed head down. It never actually tames the locks, but he’s already gotten into a habit of doing it. “That’s fine.” 

“I’ll be leaving now.”

“See you later.”

Ibe closes the door behind him, footsteps disappearing, the sound of the front door opening then shutting echoing through the near-empty apartment. Eiji just pauses for a moment, staring off into space, the thoughts still swirling around his mind before turning to his closet.

All his pants are a few sizes too large, his jeans leaving a gaping hole at the waist where his body used to fit snugly against. It’s easily fixable with a belt, but Eiji isn’t up for that today. So he pulls on a pair of drawstring khaki shorts and throws his university’s sweatshirt over the wrinkled t-shirt he wore to sleep. 

When he finishes brushing his teeth and washing his face, Eiji makes his way to the kitchen for a cup of tea when a blond head catches his attention.

Ash is lounging across the couch, scrolling through something on his phone. Eyes flickering over to Eiji’s, he puts it down, one hand up in a half-wave as a slow smile spreads across his face. “Hey there, Ei-chan.”

Eiji doesn’t even question why he’s here without first calling. He just breezes past into the kitchen, calmly putting some water to boil before putting his hands down on the counter and letting out a forced breath of air. His heart his pounding a lot louder than it should, the thrumming hard against his sternum. Letting another breath of air out, he turns slightly to peek at Ash only to meet his eyes again, the jade curious. 

“Ibe invited me here, by the way.” Ash leans against the top of the couch, chin propped up on his arms. He looks boyish like this—less pretty and more… innocent. A look that makes Eiji feel extremely... uncomfortable. “Said he didn’t want you to be alone.”

Eiji covers his mouth with a hand, looking away. “I’m… fine. With being alone, that is.”

“You’re lying,” Ash says with a grin. He gets up from the couch to make his way toward Eiji. “People have a habit of touching their mouths when they’re not telling the truth.”

“So, I lied.” Shrugging, Eiji twists back to the boiling water, pouring half inside his mug before whisking the matcha into it. “We all lie. Whether people know I do or not doesn’t bother me. It’s them uncovering the truth that does.”

“You’re a little dark today, Ei-chan. Have you been reading angsty Tumblr posts?”

Eiji doesn’t look at Ash. “I don’t know what ‘Tumblr’ is. Would you like some tea?”

“I’ll pass.”

Wordlessly, Eiji takes a sip from his cup, but the liquid sloshes against his lips, some of it running down his chin when he’s caught off guard with the arms that are suddenly around him.

“If you ever have something on your mind, you know you can always tell me,” Ash murmurs, breath against his ear. It’s so unlike his usual self that Eiji has to catch himself for a moment before facing him. 

Setting his mug down with a loud clink, Eiji twists around, wiping the spilt tea off his face with a sleeve. He usually doesn’t do that, but at the moment he doesn’t have the luxury of finding a napkin when he’s being encased like this. _“Please—"_ He lets out a small huff. “—tell me if you’re going to do that next time.”

Ash watches him quietly, fair lashes lowered over his irises, a faint scattering of dusty pink over his pale skin, and Eiji swallows. Ash is pretty at arm’s length and even when he’s across the room, but he’s even prettier this close. He’s not usually _clingy_ per se, but his impulsive self isn’t good for people like Eiji. His heart has calmed down, but it’s still thumping hard enough that he can hear it in his ears.

The front door suddenly swings open as Ibe steps in, shucking his shoes off. “Ei-chan, I forgot my 85mm…” His voice trails off when he sees Ash and Eiji in the kitchen, Ash’s arms still clasped around Eiji and Eiji still backed up against the counter. 

“Oh.” Eiji points to the other side of the apartment where his room is. “I think you may have left it in one of the other bags. Would you like me to help—“

“I-it’s perfectly fine.” Ibe is flustered, red tinting his ears. “My other lens will work just as well. Please excuse me.” He offers them a sloppy bow, almost tripping over the threshold, before shutting the door behind him.

Ash breaks away the second after, the dusky rose on his cheeks deepening to a scarlet.

Eiji’s eyes follow Ash, taking his mug to his lips for another sip of tea as Ash snatches his phone up from the couch. “Are you embarrassed Ibe-san caught you hugging me?”

_”No.”_

“It’s okay, Ash. We all already know you’re soft on the inside. If you’re ever in need of a hug, you can ask me as I’m well-acquainted with you already.”

“It’s not that—“ He breaks off with a sigh, shaking his head. “Whatever. Just come with me.”

Eiji follows him to the front door, stuffing his feet in sneakers. Ash pulls on a pair of laceless boots over ripped jeans. 

He remains pink in the face, strands of long blonde hair falling over his eyes in this way that makes Eiji conflicted. He wants to shove an elastic band over the stray locks and capture their movement with a camera at the same time.

Actually, he’s been feeling two things at once recently like love and hate are playing tug-of-war with his consciousness. One moment, he’s regarding Ash with that same attitude he had the day they met and the next, he feels free from it all but overwhelmed by the tenderness that makes him itch to become overly friendly. Which he has _always_ bee with most of the people in his life, but never in this particular way. All that jerking around, having his heart straining at the center of it all causes him to worry it might tear in half. 

Eiji digs his fingers into his chest, lips pressing together, and Ash glances at him.

“You good?”

Exhaling, Eiji nods. “Yeah.”

It’s an uncomfortable feeling he wants to get rid of.

-

“I swear to god, Ibe is worried about you more than anyone else in the world,” Ash says, taking his helmet off before running his fingers through his hair. “He calls me whenever Max isn’t available and rants about all the little things you do that makes his hair turn gray.” 

Eiji wonders what exactly Ibe tells Ash, but he already has a whole list of possible things on a running list in his mind.

“And apparently you eat more when you’re with me, so he always wants me to take you out.” 

“Are you sure that’s not just an excuse to hang out with me?” The words tumble out of his mouth—questions he always asked his sister, Emi, whenever she gave him a reason that covers up her real desires. “You don’t like sitting around in your near-empty apartment all day long, do you?” 

“Partly.” Eiji’s brows shoot up, surprised Ash didn’t try to evade answering. “I’m sure the librarians at the NYPL are tired of seeing my face when I don’t feel like staying at home.” 

_Yours? Hardly._ Eiji is most definitely sure they look forward to it every day.

“Back when it was hard for me to eat, café food really got me going,” Ash continues. “I could eat waffles and sandwiches all day without getting tired of it. Though…” He glances at Eiji. “...I don’t know if you feel the same way.”

“Hm.” Eiji looks down at his feet, the corner of his mouth quirking up. “You care quite a lot.”

“Well, if I wanted to make up an excuse, I’d say it’s because I don’t want Ibe to hate me.” He pushes the door of a small café, the bell above jingling to announce their entrance. 

It’s a nice atmosphere, simple wooden tables set on both sides of the room, the baristas taking orders from the back to their customers. It feels quiet though conversations are easily heard from one table to the next. Others are sitting at the bar tables pushed against the shop’s windows, fingers clicking against the keyboards, hands going for their half-eaten croissants and cups of coffee. 

“Do you want to eat anything in particular?”

“Anything is fine.”

As the cashier takes Ash’s order, Eiji wanders to the very right of the café, pulling out the chair of a table of two. There are paintings hung up like a gallery, the artist’s name and the price of the piece labeled to the side. They’re all reflective of Monet’s style: to paint the impression of something rather than what it is, leading to splotches of color across the canvas, the tentative brush strokes taking shape as a whole. Eiji never liked painting himself, but that art history course he took during his first semester was one he surprisingly enjoyed.

Ash slides into the seat in front of him, flashing him a small smile. “It shouldn’t take too long.”

“I’m fine with waiting.”

“I figured, but still.”

Chin propped on the heel of his hand, Eiji just offers him an appreciative half-nod, his fringe coming down to cover his eyes. It’s messy and long and overdue for a haircut, but Eiji never liked going to salons and sitting in a chair while someone else snipped away from his hair. He’d either let his sister have her way with it or let it grow out until it was unbearable enough to convince him to get it cut.

And Ash must think so too, one arm stretching out, fingers pulling half of Eiji’s fringe away to the side to peek at the brown eyes underneath.

Eiji has the sudden urge to lean forward, press his cheek against Ash’s open palm. 

“Nadia does a pretty good job at trimming hair if you can’t see through this,” Ash says. “I hate getting my hair cut by random people. They always get it wrong.”

Sitting back, Eiji forces put a puff of air. His heart is pounding a little louder, beating a little faster—just like this morning. He cards his fingers through his bangs, pulling them flat against the top of his head before letting go. They flop back over his face, the ends poking through his lashes and tickling his eyes. “Maybe.”

Ash just stares at him. “The longer I’m with you, the less I seem to know.”

“Wha…” Eiji blinks. “What do you mean?”

“You’re one of those people who I feel like I’ve got all figured out the moment I meet you. You usually don’t really hide your emotions toward someone else—your heart’s written on your sleeve. But I’ve learned that how people feel towards _others_ doesn’t necessarily tell me how they feel towards _themselves.”_ Leaning forward on his elbows, Ash tilts his head to one side. “I don’t know what goes on in your head, and I realize it means I don’t know you. You’re quick to snap at someone if need be, but other times, you’re so calm I feel like you might disappear in front of my eyes. Morning mist, a passing fog, fairy wings, reflections—that’s sort of thing.”

“I won’t.” Eiji looks down at his hands as if to check to see if they just might be transparent. “I’m solid, aren’t I? Human beings don’t disappear like fog.”

“But they _do.”_ When Ash says it, it sounds like the saddest thing in the world. And maybe to him it is, but Eiji doesn’t know. “One month, remember? A few more days and I won’t be seeing you at the agency anymore. Unless Blanca decides he wants Ibe to continue to shoot with me.”

It’s information that has slipped past Eiji’s mind. “I’ll still be in New York until next April, Ash.”

Ash pauses once, letting out a soft laugh. “See what I mean? You’re so calm at times it scares me.”

“Ash, I—“

“Wow, so the rumors were true after all. You quit school to live with your boyfriend in America?”

The voice is familiar, soft and sweet all at once. But it’s so sudden that Eiji almost flinches back. Like someone just severed the ties he had left with the people he cares about. 

The first time Eiji met her, Yuri Hirose reminded him of marshmallows—the artificial strawberry kind he would sometimes buy from the convenience store when he craved something sugary late at night. And she looks the same—tawny brown hair permed throughout in subtle waves, doe eyes, and a smile spun by a confectioner. She says everything with that same demure smile on her face. 

“I honestly didn’t think you were the type of person to do that.”

Eiji clenches his teeth, not daring to look at Ash. He folds his hands underneath the table, squeezing them together, but they still shake. “In Japanese, Hirose-san.”

“You two are more than acquaintances,” Yuri says, brows lifting. “Why keep what I have to say to yourself, _Ei-chan?”_

Coming from her, the name stings. “Because this is between you and me, and he’s not—“ Eiji finally steals a glance at Ash whose brows are drawn together in confusion and slight irritation. When his eyes swivel to meet Eiji’s, Eiji shakes his head, the tips of his fingers pressing down on Ash’s knee. Taking his attention back to Yuri, he continues in Japanese, “—he’s not my boyfriend. Just a friend.”

“Hm.” Yuri taps a finger to her lips, then shrugs, turning. “Whatever. You’ve already suffered enough for what you did.” Looking back over her shoulder, she glares at him. “The rumors are true anyway. It’s not like you got hurt in the end.”

 _Not like I got hurt in the end?_ Eiji instantly feels empty, his mouth drying, the heavy beat of his heart nothing compared to how cold it suddenly feels. The tension in his jaw disappears, the frustration and anger he felt melting away.

 _”Nee-san.”_ A boy marches over from the entrance, clamping his hand down on her shoulder. He’s just barely out of breath—most likely from chasing after his sister. There’s a terrifying smile on his face and fire behind his gaze, but Eiji doesn’t feel it at all behind the ice that’s going through his veins, that last phrase repeating itself in his mind. “What did I tell you about this sort of thing, hm?”

When he looks over her shoulder, his expression settles into nothing, hand growing slack. There’s tamed surprise in his eyes when he notices its Eiji his sister had promptly walked up to. Yuri brushes him off, angrily stomping away into the restroom, and he sighs. “Okumura Eiji, right?” He’s speaking in Japanese which Eiji appreciates, but Eiji is too stiff to even reply. “I apologize on behalf of my sister’s rudeness.” He looks like he wants to leave it at that, but ultimately decides not to. “I... don’t know if you remember, but we’ve met before—backstage at an… event. I’d like to talk more with you about what happened, but since we’re both busy with our own plans, I’ll call you tonight. Our family owes you a formal apology.” The words are hardly sympathetic nor did they sound like they’re from someone who wants forgiveness, but Eiji honestly doesn’t care.

Because he’s afraid of the truth behind that incident—the suspicions that crept up to him in those days where he had pinpoints of clarity while the whole thing came like a nightmare after nightmare before his eyes. “Please don’t call me. I won’t pick up.” Eiji curls his fingers into fists, nails biting crescents into his skin. “I just want to forget it even happened.”

Yuri’s brother doesn’t let up, though. He looks harmless, short in stature and built like a fairy, but it doesn’t come across in the way he handles things. “I can’t empathize with you, but I’d like you to know that at least my intention is sincere. Whether you’re willing to listen to me or not is obviously up to you in the end, but I don’t want you to make the same mistake like last time and completely ignore my words. As yourself if you’re getting anywhere with the way you’re handling things.” He holds Eiji’s gaze for a second longer before going after his sister—into the women’s restroom and all. 

Eiji lets out a shuddering breath, then stands up. Some onlookers glance at him, but most just keep to their own conversations. 

Ash gets up from his seat as well, gently taking Eiji’s hand before going up to the register. He takes a napkin and scribbles something onto it, handing it to the cashier, but Eiji can barely follow what he’s saying. He’s honestly just trying to fight the burning feeling behind his eyes.

Then, Ash is putting his helmet on his head, and slinging a leg over his bike before patting the space behind him. Eiji follows, but when his hands don’t go around Ash’s waist, the boy has to do that manually too. 

“If you’re not going to hold on tight enough, I’m gonna treat you like you’re drunk again and make you sit facing me,” Ash chides. But it’s soft; he’s saying it because he cares, and again, Eiji gets that uncomfortable pang in his chest. “It’s awkward and embarrassing. Wanna try it again?” 

_What the heck._ Eiji scoots closer, cheek against Ash’s shoulder with his eyes squeezed shut, fingers interlocking around Ash. 

“Okay. Good.” Ash lets out of breath of air, hooking his boot under the kickstand, one leg out to steady his bike. “Let me know if your arms get sore.”

-

He can smell it in the air before he sees it. The heavy sulfur and the iodine. It’s different, but the same simultaneously. 

Eiji feels like he’s _drowning_ in it.

“Your hometown is close to the ocean,” Ash says, smoothly turning into one of the empty spaces just across from a long boardwalk. There’s hardly anyone here, and Eiji wonders if it’s a coincidence or if it’s because American students are preparing for exams during this time of the year since their academic semester is drawing to an end. “Izumo, was it?” 

Nodding, Eiji tugs his helmet off, blinking against the harsh light of the sun. It’s already later in the afternoon, and yet, the sun is still blazing hot above them. 

“You can easily see it in some parks in Queens or in Coney Island, but it’s not the same if you’re not beside the whole span of it,” Ash says. He takes a cursory glance at Eiji. “Or, at least, that’s what I believe.” 

Eiji mouths the words before saying them. “It’s pretty.” 

“Serene when the tides are low.” 

And it’s true. Watching the waves lap against the shoreline, darkening the sand with water. It’s rhythmic—like a heartbeat—up and down and up again repetitively. Even if someone stands against them, it’s not enough to break their silent beat. THe waves just curve around their boundaries, eating up everything in their path until they reach their destination. 

Unless someone builds a wall in front of it—one strong enough to stop that movement. All the waves can do is crash against it, breaking into foam at the very top before trying again. 

When Eiji turns to look at Ash, the boy already has his eyes on him. As cliché as it sounds, they sparkle like the precious stones they are—a clear jade that rivals the cerulean shades of the sea. Eiji’s fingers itch for a camera, his index finger jerking forward as if pressing down on the shutter. 

Running his fingers through his hair, Ash fixes his gaze toward the ocean. “You know, I used to live next to the sea in this house I thought was way too big for my family. But now that I actually think about it, it all probably seemed ‘big’ because of how tiny I was compared to everything else.” A sliver of a smile touches his lips at the nostalgia of it. “My parents owned a small coffee shop on the first floor that they’d sometimes turn into a bar during weekend nights, and I remember staying up during those times well past curfew to listen to the adults talk about things I didn’t understand.” He sighs, long and slow, boots digging into the grainy sand, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket. 

It’s not one of those long sighs of relief—nothing light as if he’s getting stuff off his chest. It tears itself away from him, taking a piece of his heart with it, and Eiji feels that deep within his soul, raw and heavy and sensitive. 

“It’s so fucking sad,” Ash whispers. “I used to only hate my family, but being with _you_... I don’t know. You make me feel so much _more_ that sometimes I think I might die.”

Eiji swallows, and it scrapes against his dry throat. His hands are still shaking, the parts where he dug his nails in throbbing. And his heart throbs too, the back of his head pounding. He’s stressed and hurt and confused yet freed and breathless at the same time, and all of these emotions blended together create the worst concoction he’s ever experienced in his life.

“Is that… a _bad_ thing?” 

“I don’t know, you tell me.” Ash laughs under his breath, fingers pressing against his eyes. “But I still want to be with you twenty-four seven. Who cares if I die, right?” 

Eiji is quiet. Really quiet, unable to look up from the sea before him. He’s no longer scared of being pulled under those waves. 

He’s scared of how he feels when he hears those words.

-

Ibe is back by the time Ash drops Eiji back to his apartment.

He’s exhausted and hungry, having not eaten anything during the entire day, though he wouldn’t have even if he had the chance.

“I’m home.”

“Welcome back, Ei-chan.” Ibe peeks back from the kitchen counter, fingers still glued to the keyboard in front of him. His camera sits beside his arm, the memory card plugged into the front of his laptop. “Do you want to eat dinner?” 

“After my shower.” 

“Alright.” Ibe points at the microwave. “Someone dropped off some food from a café about ten minutes ago. I already ate after the shoot, so you can have my portion as well.” 

Eiji offers him a smile. “Thank you, Ibe-san.” 

“Anything.” 

He can feel Ibe’s eyes follow him for a moment longer before his fingers start clicking away at his laptop’s keys. 

Eiji grabs a t-shirt and his track shorts from his room before going to the bathroom, cranking the heat up to almost max and stepping in underneath the waterfall. It feels good over his skin—a different kind of heat that rivals the sun’s. 

His body buzzes from the heat, cheeks flushed as Eiji pushes his wet hair up and away from his forehead. A few locks curl up over the nape of his neck, and though he once thought it was annoying to have his hair grow that long, he’s so used to it now that it doesn’t even bother him anymore. 

Plopping down on the foot of his bed, Eiji falls back, a few damp strands of his hair falling back over his forehead. A breath of air escapes his lips, and he curls his fingers into a fist over his heart. 

When his phone rings several minutes afterward, he doesn’t even bat an eye. He just grabs it from the desk beside him, answering it within the first ring. He doesn’t even bother to greet Yuri’s brother with a single ‘hello.’

“That was quick.”

“I was waiting. And… I realized there are other things I’m more afraid of than the truth of what happened.” Eiji opens his eyes to the cream-colored ceiling above. “I’m not stupid either. I’ve had a lot of time to think about it, and like you’ve said—“ He puts on a sad smile for no one in particular. “—I’ve been running away from everything.”

“I came in too strongly, didn’t I?” 

Eiji remembers the boy backstage—his overwhelmingly confident and unperturbed presence, the way he emphasized his words whenwarning Eiji about those whose hands often strayed. It feels like forever ago when only three months have passed. “You did it on purpose.” 

He pauses. “Well, I did. I knew what my sister was planning in retaliation to the rumors that spread after your rejection of her public confession. How do you think she felt when her title of the ‘lily of the valley’—the _takane no hana_ —became something completely opposite?”

Eiji knows—he knows better than anyone else what happened because of how much he’s already blamed himself for it. For that, and for the thousand other things in his life. People twisted the confession into something dramatic. Yuri accepted the fact that Eiji wanted to remain as friends, but others completely overhauled the whole thing and decided to tell their own stories. Of how clingy she actually was—how easy it was to get her. How she was, in fact, a slut. 

“She paid that student to buy you from the auction, but she never told him to do what he did to you.” 

Eiji doesn’t even react.

“The moment I saw you leave the auditorium with that guy, I told your captain to go after you. I’m sorry your teammates didn’t make it in time.”

There’s an extended moment of silence between them, and Eiji can hear the boy sigh through the receiver. 

He closes his eyes. He wants to get it all over with.

“Yuri doesn’t know what actually happened. She thinks all he did was say a few words to hurt you or whatever. She’s not _evil_ —she just... doesn’t know how to deal with her hurt in a normal way. Our family found out, and my parents are punishing her by forcing her to spend her last year studying abroad by herself. Not that they could really force me to stay, though. They’ve also already apologized to your family, but didn’t say exactly what for. We left it up to you to tell them—whether you choose to or not.”

When Eiji still doesn’t respond, the boy continues. 

“Your captain told me to let you know he wants to see you fly again—whatever that means. I don’t think you will, but save my number on your phone if you ever need anything. The name’s Yuki.”

The call ends, and the screen turns black.

Eiji just lies there, letting it all sink in. 

He took it way better than he thought he would.

And when he thinks about it, he wonders if he even had the right to become all depressed like that. He wonders if he was overreacting over the entire thing, and if his actions afterwards were warranted. He feels numb all over, barely able to move his fingers, his phone still resting in the palm of his right hand.

Ash suffered far worse than he ever has, and yet, he’s the one who blew the whole thing up, couldn’t muster up the strength to go to school or talk to anyone. 

While he’s here, internalizing the pain and thinking about poor choices he made, Ash is moving on with life. 

_It’s not that simple for everyone._

What did his sister say again? That just because someone else is suffering more than he is doesn’t make his hurt any less tangible. It’s still there.

And he asks himself how it felt to be free up in the air like that, because the feeling is growing more and more foreign as the days pass by.

“Ei-chan, are you done with your shower? Come eat.”

He hauls himself up. “Coming.”

Pulling out one of the kitchen chairs, Eiji sits down, then undoes the seal on the paper bag in front of him. It’s no doubt food from the café he and Ash visited in the afternoon, though he never got the chance to eat with Yuri showing up so suddenly like that. 

He’s so mentally and emotionally exhausted he can barely feel anything, and stares blankly at the napkin right on top. It’s the one Ash hastily scrawled on, the dark ink stark against white.

_Let me know when you wanna talk about it._

But Eiji has already decided he won’t see Ash again. Not after how he felt when Ash took him to the ocean. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for readinggg!!! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Eiji, if… if I stop running away from you, will you stop running away from me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm suuuuuuuuuuuper sorry for not posting for over a month. It's been difficult thinking of how to organize the rest of this fic (as it's in my head, but I honestly don't know how to lay the scenes out in a way that makes sense). I think I'm getting there, but it's going to take some time. To those who are still here with me from the beginning, thank you so much for the endless support!! ♡ This chapter is a little shorter, but hopefully, I'll be able to publish something longer next time. (: I promise I'll never abandon this fic, though, so even if I am away for a long time, I'll definitely be back. ♡♡♡♡♡
> 
> (I'm just... *sighs* so tempted to just jump to the end where everything gets wrapped up in a nice little bow with no loose ends. I _live_ for endings and beginnings, but that stuff that happens in between is what I seriously struggle with.)

Ash is sulking—not because he had to wake up early for a shoot today or because he doesn’t want to work, but because he hasn’t seen Eiji even once in the past week. Ibe claims it’s because Eiji wants to take a rest before continuing to work as his assistant at the agency, but he’s convinced it's because of what he said at the beach. 

“I need to process things before I speak,” he mutters as Nadia applies something onto his face. 

“What?” She pauses, raising a brow. “Are _you_ the one who scared Eiji away? Blanca already extended the contract with Ibe, so I was wondering why I haven’t seen him for the past few days.” 

Ash crosses his arms together, frowning. “Feels like it’s been forever. I shouldn’t have taken him to the ocean.”

“So something _did_ happen.” 

“Nothing really. I just…” Averting his eyes, Ash lets his mind wander back to the feeling of the sun above, the slight breeze, the freedom entangled with something else. “...couldn’t restrain myself from saying things I probably shouldn’t have let someone like Eiji know.” 

“Don’t tell me you confessed.” 

This yanks him back to the present. “I _didn’t_ —obviously. I couldn’t help but remember Cape Cod, so I was rambling, eventually got caught up in all my feelings, and ended up blurting out that I want to stay with him forever.”

“Hm.” Nadia taps the plastic end of the makeup brush against her chin. “Sounds like a confession to me. You might as well have said you love him. Though there are many different kinds of love, I think the one you have with him is something… real. You’re committed even though you’re not even intimate with him.” She pauses for a moment, then points the brush at Ash. “Well, to be straight with you, it's borderline infatuation, but most people feel that way in the beginning stages of love, so it’s natural. Means you might have something deep once you two actually open up to each other.” 

“It’s not that simple,” Ash says. “I can’t just… just _tell_ him everything.”

“It was simple enough for you to say out in public on the beach,” Nadia notes.

“You know I’m impulsive when it comes to my feelings. I say things without thinking—it’s not like I can stop myself from it.” He pauses. “Well, I _have,_ but it’s like I have to stab myself to take my attention elsewhere.” 

“Well, I definitely suggest you go into it at your own pace, but don’t let your emotions built up so much that it spills over the edge. You’ll regret it.”

“You’re lucky you were still taking the pill.” 

“Shut up; I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Ash was there from the very beginning of Nadia’s complicated relationship with Charlie. And it’s changed her a considerable lot. He used to know her as Shorter’s reserved older sister—she never spoke too much, just served during busy nights and worked for NK Agency during the day. She lived separately from Shorter in a small studio apartment an hour away from the city since the two of them had drifted away from each other after something that happened almost three years ago. Ash doesn’t know what it was exactly, but he knows it has to do with their dad and Sing’s parents. 

But, of course, now she lives with Charlie and hardly ever keeps to herself when she’s with familiar people. Though when she’s stressed, she reverts back to her cold self which Ash has vowed never to get caught up in the crossfire of. 

“Hey, Nadia?” 

She turns away from a moment. “Hm?” 

“It is really that obvious?” 

“What?” 

“Me and Eiji.” 

“Uh, yeah.” Nodding vigorously, she gestures to the door where the crew and everyone else is. “Everyone knows you’re the type of person who can sweet-talk just about anyone, but it’s real when you’re with Eiji. You’re really tentative sometimes, too. I never really thought it was in your nature to bet that sensitive, though Shorter tells me you secretly are.” 

He should be irritated, but he isn’t. “Do you think Eiji knows?” 

“The boy is smart, don’t get me wrong,” Nadia starts, “but he seems like the type of person who isn’t aware of that sort of thing. Maybe because his mind always seems to be somewhere else.” 

“But _where_ else?”

“Obviously I don’t know exactly, but if you’re asking me, I’d go ahead and say that most people don’t live in the present.” She stops for a few moments to contemplate. “Or, at least, not fully. Our past haunts us, we’re anxious about the future—there are so many different factors that make us turn our heads away from what’s in front of us. And I think being so preoccupied with these moments in time that we can’t manipulate screws up our lives.”

Nadia speaks the truth. Ash knows. The only thing he doesn’t know is how to appear more trustworthy so Eiji is able to share his thoughts with him more. Or maybe the problem right now is that _Ash_ needs to stop hiding a big chunk of his life away from the people he cares about—even if that stuff concerns things he doesn’t want to talk about, much less let Eiji know. 

“So we have to make amends with the past in order for us to focus on the present and shoot for a better future.” 

“Exactly.” 

“You do know that’s easier said than done, right?” 

Nadia actually laughs—full-on laughter that fills the prep room. “Of course! I mean, look at me; I still can’t get over what happened to my dad or what happened to Charlie when we first started dating.” She tugs on one of her earrings. “I’m letting it fuck up my future even when I know I should let the things I have little to no control over or knowledge of go.” 

Ash studies her for a moment. She’s always been incredibly honest with herself and with the people around her. Even though she looks cold on the outside and completely unapproachable, she’s one of the warmest people Ash knows, and he appreciates this; a lot more than he’s able to ever express. 

“Thanks, Nadia.” Getting up from the chair, Ash beams. “After this shoot, I’m definitely gonna talk with Eiji.” 

He reaches for the door but stops for a second before turning back to her. “And you should marry him,” Ash says. “I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with Charlie’s parents, but you’re one of the best people I’ve met in my life, and he’s not gonna be happy with anyone else unless it’s you.”

Nadia laughs softly. “Everyone has been telling me that lately.” 

“‘Cause they’re right, and you know it.”

She smiles sadly. “You know, I’ve been thinking that… we’re all such... _broken_ people.”

Ash feels it in his heart—that tightening feeling that hasn’t left him for the past ten years of his life. “Everyone is. The only difference is that some people know how to cover it up, and… like us, some don’t.”

-

“Did Eiji talk to you about Ash recently?”

Ibe shakes his head, scrolling through the photos he took yesterday evening. “No, it has been a few weeks since.” 

Max looks away for a moment before fixing his attention back on Ibe. “A month has passed, and though it’s obvious enough Ash and Eiji have become closer, I wonder why he’s not updating us on anything.” 

“Because what they speak about together is not about their pasts.” Setting his camera down, Ibe’s eyes flicker up. “Both of them are reserved. They don’t want people to delve into sensitive parts of their history, Max.” 

“Of course, I know,” Max says. He pauses, sighing. “It’s just that I’ve been chasing Golzine down for years and years, and I hate to keep on watching his business go one when I know _exactly_ what he’s running.” 

“None of us like the thought of it, but some things require time.” Ibe won’t tell Max, but what he really wants Eiji to do is mend his heart and soul. If it meant not taking on the responsibility of uncovering Golzine’s illegal activities and focusing on his relationship with Ash, that is fine. It sounds selfish and incredibly immoral for Ibe to think of it this way, but it is the truth, after all.

“I thought he’d maybe figure out why Ash left… or _why_ Golzine kept Ash even when he was considered ‘too old’ for the business.” 

Ibe studies Max, who is clearly stressed. Max is often stressed, but more so now. “Is your journalist friend tired of waiting?” 

“No—no, I’m still in contact with him about this,” Max says, “it’s just that if Golzine finally figures up what we’re up to, he’s either going to get rid of us or go somewhere where we can’t find or touch him. It gets… complicated when too much time passes, you know?” 

“I understand.” 

Several moments of silence pass by them before Max stops pacing across his office floor and decides to finally sit down opposite to Ibe. 

“So…” he scratches the back of his head. “How are Ash and Eiji? Their relationship?” 

“Progressing.” Glancing down, Ibe folds his hands together. “Though, perhaps there is a wedge between them right now.” 

Max arches his brows. “Ah, so that’s why Eiji has been absent as of late.” 

“I don’t think they have fought.” Ibe untangles his fingers, balling them up into fists on top of his lap. “Eiji is… scared. He is avoidant when it comes to opening up to people or creating new bonds with them.” 

“Has he been hurt in the past?” 

“Yes,” Ibe says. “Very badly. But, I also believe he is scared because the feeling is new. He has… never loved romantically before.” 

“Eiji does know he’s probably just going to make things worse if he prolongs his separation from Ash, right?” 

Ibe doesn’t doubt Max’s words at all. His friend understands through experience what the consequences of that were with his marriage. “Yes; they say the heart grows fonder with absence, but the idea of that is psychologically wrong. You grow to love someone the closer you are with them—proximity creates fondness and affection.” 

“I wish I’d listened to you before Jessica threw the towel.” Sighing, Max crosses his legs together, leaning further back, body dragging against the back of the tufted leather couch. He has more lines carved into his face, deepening his features and adding extra years on his actual age. “You’re incredibly insightful. I know why Eiji is able to open up to you.” 

“I have experience in this field,” Ibe says. “I have… met many different people in my career and have gone through some of the same things.”

“But you’re kind too,” Max argues. “None of this has anything to do with you, and yet, you’re willing to leave home just to help Eiji—a boy you only got to know for a month, though you did practically camp outside of his bedroom door for the majority of that.” 

“Hm.” The memory isn’t too buried deep in his mind, but he remembers first knocking on the Okumura’s door and standing there awkwardly until a girl in bright pink hair swung it open with curious eyes. He was always the sort of person who didn’t exactly like social contact, but his job made him more accustomed to it; rather than outrightly rejecting it, he accepted it, though not without the nervous thrums that went through his heart. 

“Max, do you want me to convince Jessica to marry you again?” 

His eyes widen at first, but then he looks away. “I should probably finish my case against Golzine before I make any moves.” 

_”She still loves you”_ is what Ibe wants to tell him, but the words stay in his mind for the time being. Jessica has already subconsciously expressed thousands of times that she really didn’t want the divorce; it was perhaps made in a fit of repressed anger that finally surfaced. 

Besides, it’s not his place to tell Max something like that. Whether Jessica wants to is ultimately up to her. 

It’s the same for Eiji. 

Ibe has already held his hand for longer than he needed to. It was hard, but he even stopped nagging Eiji about eating a full three meals per day and coming to the agency. If the boy thinks he’s better off without anyone, then he’ll eventually learn otherwise. 

“Good.” He grabs his camera off the seat as he stands, ready to get back to a different shoot for today. “It seems you are slowly apologizing for neglecting your relationship with Jessica. ‘Love does not just sit there like a stone; it has to be made, like bread, remade all the time, made new.’”

Max presses a hand to his face, groaning. Which Ibe completely understands because he has already repeated this to Max countless times. “I get it, I get it.”

The man doesn’t understand as well as he claims he does; Ibe already knows. But he doesn’t judge him for it. If anything, he is glad Max still has a chance. Unlike him, Ibe doesn’t have anyone to tangibly love in a way that isn’t platonic. 

He still holds his wife close to his heart and listens to her words whenever he walks through a crowd of people late at night. He still catches her perfume in the corners of the room and watches her rise with the sun. He has remade their love too many times to count, whispering the things she likes to hear into the empty space beside him, and he will continue to do so. 

To him, people do not disappear when death takes them away.

He hopes Eiji will understand that people do not disappear when he runs away.

-

There are too many people here in the morning, and Eiji doesn’t fit into the crowd at all. Unless you counted the fact that he looked a little disheveled and had dark circles underneath his eyes like some of the people who were drinking silently at the bar.

He knows Shorter’s bar is known for its high-class menu and equally fancy drinks, so the whole demographic of wealthy-looking people drinking themselves to a stupor or grabbing brunch before heading back to work isn’t surprising at all.

It’s presumptuous for him to have this thought, but only rich people can afford to have an hour-long meal every day outside and get drunk when it’s only an hour past the afternoon. 

Forcing himself to enter the bar, Eiji hurriedly makes his way to the bar at the very center, catching one of the bartender’s attention by flashing a smile.

She recognizes him before he can open his mouth. “You’re the one who comes over with Ash sometimes. Looking for Shorter?” 

Eiji just nods.

“He’s actually out this afternoon with something, but you can definitely wait for him up in his penthouse,” she says, pointing at the elevator. “You know the passcode?”

Eiji offers another nod.

Pushing herself away from the counter, she offers him an easy smile. “Alrighty, then. When Shorter comes back, I’ll let him know you’re waiting for him.”

“Thank you.”

When Eiji steps into the elevator, he’s enveloped by the mirrors that surround it, a halo of dimmed white light above him just barely reflecting off the floor. He feels uncomfortable because he can see himself from every angle, yet the feeling he gets when all he can see is himself is somewhat freeing. 

If it were only him in the world, it would be no doubt lonely, but he feels like it might actually be easier on him. 

The elevator makes it to the last floor swiftly, doors opening to reveal a place that is already becoming extremely familiar to Eiji.

Dark colors all around like night enveloping an empty space. It’s the kind of atmosphere you’d immediately feel calm in.

“Hey, Shorter,” a raspy voice says, “I said I’m _fine.”_

“Ah, excuse me.” Eiji steps out to find Sing on one of the bar stools, legs dangling over it. His eyes and nose are red, the splotchy color a mess on his cheeks, lips pale. He’s wearing a lavender hoodie that nearly swallows him whole. 

Sing appears shocked at first, round eyes wide, but he settles back into his usual blank expression, resting his chin on his arms. “Sorry; thought you were him.” 

“You don’t have to apologize.” Eiji tentatively sits down a seat away from him. “And forgive me for meddling, but you don’t look alright either.” 

“I’m just… cold.” 

“Shivering?” 

“Mm.” 

After giving the kitchen and lounge area behind a once-over, Eiji tugs a random blanket off the couch and folds it in half before draping it over Sing’s shoulders. “It’s probably a fever.”

Sing pulls the blanket tighter around him and ties it into a knot across his throat, the hood of his sweatshirt obscuring part of his face from view. “I figured.”

“Well, you’ve probably gotten sick at least once like this before.”

“Nah, it’s the first time.” 

“Oh, I see.”

The silence that settles between them is thick, but Eiji doesn’t particularly mind it. It would have been awkward if he’d just met Sing, but thinking back to the moment when they first saw each other, it can’t get any more uncomfortable than to find some random boy catching you crying at five in the morning. 

At the time, Eiji’s mind was a little too hazy to exactly process everything, but if he was completely awake, he would have been a lot more flustered. Perhaps he would have considered leaving the penthouse altogether to save him from the repercussions of embarrassment.

But then again, the completely nonchalant nature Sing has when Eiji is around him allows him to be comfortable. 

“You came to talk to Shorter about Ash, didn’t you?”

Eiji actually has to sit and think about it for a while before it dawns on him that his sudden and uncharacteristic impulse in leaving Ibe’s apartment after vowing not to come out for a good week or two completely ruined his plan for the next few days. Hopefully, Ash isn’t thinking of stopping by because Eiji doesn’t know what will happen if they see each other again. The feeling in his heart is only going to get worse. 

What surprises him now, though, is the fact that Sing knows exactly what’s on his mind. “Did… did Shorter tell you?” 

Shaking his head, Sing straightens in his seat. “I mean, the way you two _look_ at each other—”

Eiji wants to mute him, covering his face with his hands when the heat starts to crawl from underneath his collar up to the tips of his ears. 

“—is enough evidence for anyone, just saying. And Ash obviously wants to jump you every time he sees you, but he’s been holding back for your sake.” Sing stops. “Probably for everyone else’s sake, too, because I don’t think it’s entirely considerate to screw someone when you’re not completely alone with them.” He points at walls. “These aren’t exactly sound-proof, you know?” 

“Please don’t worry; that will never happen,” Eiji says, voice muffled behind his hands.

“Well, no duh—it’s _you_ we’re talking about with Ash. If you were some random girl from those parties he always goes to for work, do you think you’d care?”

Heart momentarily stopping, Eiji holds his breath for a second. “Ash… brings girls here?” 

“Well, yeah,” Sing says, shrugging. Eiji is surprised he can talk this much even though he’s clearly running a fever. “But it’s mostly because they’re always all over him, and he can’t dump them on the side of the street or his agency will take the fall when he gets plastered over media as a heartless bastard.” Sliding off the stool, Sing pads over to one of the cabinets to pull out a box of tea bags. “He usually shoves them over to Shorter, then collapses on the couch and promptly falls asleep.”

“Oh.”

“Yeah, and since Shorter runs a bar, the media can’t claim Ash is sleeping with them since most people leave parties to get a drink or two before going home, you know?” 

Eiji slowly nods.

“In any case, Shorter is too nice to him,” Sing says, “but, I don’t know, he’s a lot less of a jerk with your influence.”

“No, he’s still annoying sometimes.”

Sing snickers. “Right?”

This makes the corners of Eiji’s mouth curl up a bit. 

“So, now that it’s clear to you that he likes you, are you going to let him know about your own feelings? You’re… a lot less expressive and passive around him.”

“Actually… I’m scared of telling him,” Eiji murmurs. “And though he does feel the same way, I’m scared of starting the relationship. Of initiating it.”

Sing grips the edge of the marble countertop, tipping dangerously back on the stool. “Well, if you ask me, I’m more scared of _losing_ someone. The idea that someone else is going to take them away pushes me to confess.” 

Pausing, Eiji turns to look at the boy. To actually, really look at him. He’s young—the age in which youth has just started to allow him to think of relationships in not just an interdependent or close way, but an intimate one. _”Did_ you? Confess, I mean?” 

Sing lets out a puff of air, and there’s a trace of a smile on his lips. “I will the next time I see him.” 

_Him?_ “You’re quite open.”

“You mean my sexual orientation?” Rocking forward so all four legs of his stool are on the ground, Sing swings around to face Eiji, an arm hooked around the back of the chair. “Yeah, I guess. I thought I only liked girls, but the more time I spent with him—I don’t know—” He shrugs. “—gender doesn’t matter to me.”

Eiji laughs softly. “Of course; you don’t seem like the type of person who would let that get in the way of being by the person you love.” 

“But, you do.”

The way he says it is blunt, but Eiji is used to this. Even if Eiji sometimes did wrap his words up in spun sugar out of respect, his way of speaking has always been straight-forward in a way that makes the people he talk to understand what he means. 

“That's true,” Eiji murmurs. “No one at home knows about my preferences except for my sister. And even if I did exclusively like the opposite gender, there are about a thousand things that would perhaps keep me from telling them I want to be with them. For every little situation, I can’t help but think that their potential alternatives are a lot better than settling with me.”

Sing screws his face up. “You’re so stupid. Even if Ash has alternatives, he’s still not gonna choose anyone but you. It’s not like he can tell his heart to calm down whenever he sees you, or transfer those emotions on to someone else who’s supposedly better than you. It doesn’t work like that, _idiot.”_

The insults fly past Eiji’s head.

“You’re very... resolute.”

“If I’m not, who the heck is going to be?” He’s quiet for a few seconds. “Shorter is low-key a pushover, and Nadia is too hesitant about everything.”

“So you take care of them,” Eiji says. “That’s admirable.”

It’s faint, but Eiji can see the already dark shade on his cheeks deepen. “I wanna be like that for the people who don’t have anyone else to lean on.” 

_For the person you like, huh?_ “You’re so cute, Sing.”

He shoots up, blanket fluttering behind his small shoulders. His hood falls back, revealing his entire face and adorable bed head of small tufts sticking vertically up. “I’m _not.”_

“Yes, you are.”

Shorter sets a reusable plastic bag on the counter before pulling out medicine and a whole pack of juice. There’s a pack of some kind of dried up flower inside, Chinese written across the packaging. Shorter waves a juice box and the bottle of medicine in front of Sing’s face. “Drink this and take your meds. You’re having a cup of jīnyín huā in fifteen minutes.”

Snatching the items from Shorter’s hand, it doesn’t take long for Sing to dash up the stairs and into his room. The blanket he tied around his shoulders like a cape flutters against his back.

“Did you do that?”

Eiji’s eyes swivel to Shorter’s amused ones. “The blanket-cape? I gave him the blanket since he said he was cold, but he tied it like that.” 

“Wish he’d let me take more pictures of him,” Shorter sighs. “Your youth is short; he’s gonna regret that he doesn’t have anything to look back on when he’s eighty-something and dying.” 

Eiji plays with the hem of his sweater, the edges fuzzy with wear. “I think the memories are imprinted. Maybe the images are fleeting, but the feeling is still there.”

“Well, it depends. Sometimes, some people like having something to hold, you know?” 

“True.”

Grabbing a small pot from one of the lower cabinets, Shorter fills it halfway with water, pours half of the dried flowers into it, and puts it on the stove. “You had something you wanted to talk about?” 

“I might go back to Japan early.”

_“What?”_

“It’s abrupt and selfish, I know, but I don’t think I can stay here.” 

Shorter isn’t looking at him. “Does Ash know?” 

“I haven’t talked to him for a week, and… I haven’t told anyone about my plans yet,” Eiji says, hands wringing together. “Except for you, that is.” 

“Okay.” Letting out a puff of air, Shorter sets his hands on Eiji’s shoulders. He’s beyond concerned, and now Eiji feels horrible for confiding in him when he perhaps should have just kept everything to himself. “And you thought about everything rationally? You’re not going to regret your decision once you set it in stone?” 

“I don’t know.” 

Shorter sucks in his bottom lip. “You don’t wanna talk it out with Ash?” 

“He’s obviously not going to let me leave. You know he’s moved by his emotions far more than I am.” 

“Holy crap. He told you.”

“About what?” 

A grin breaks across Shorter’s face as he rounds the counter. “About his _feelings_ for you—what else?” 

“What?” Eiji shakes his head. “No, no he didn’t—I just… finally figured it out.” 

“Isn’t this good?” Shorter’s brows come together. He’s instantly deflated, the sunshine that was seeping from his body suddenly shrouded by dark clouds. “Why do you wanna leave him when it’s mutual? The feelings you two have?”

“Because…” Pressing his lips together, Eiji looks away.

“You’re scared?” 

When Eiji doesn’t move, Shorter does so instead, bringing him in for a hug. “It’s your first love, yeah? Of course you are; it’s natural. But if you ask me, I think ignoring it and giving up so quickly isn’t going to do you any good.” 

“Shorter.”

“Hm?” 

Eiji feels steam at the back of his neck. “The water is boiling.” 

He watches as Shorter scrambles back behind the counter to turn the heat down and prop a lid halfway over the pot. The smell of something bitter enters the air.

Shorter is about to pour half its contents into a mug when his phone rings. Sandwiching the phone between his shoulder and ear, he continues to pour the liquid into a mug, using the lid as a makeshift decanter so the flowers don’t spill out of the pot. “Hello?” He pauses. “Yeah, of course. See you in ten.” 

Sliding the cup towards Eiji, Shorter nods up the staircase. “Could you do me a favor and give this to Sing? Ash needs me for something real quick.” 

Eiji brings the mug up to Sing who begrudgingly accepts it before draining the whole thing at the door and handing the cup back with the empty juice box. After rising the cup in the sink and setting it aside, Eiji climbs back onto the stool, resting his head in his arms as he mulls over everything.

It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes of complete silence when Eiji’s phone starts vibrating in his pocket. Without looking at the screen to see the contact, he accepts the call and brings it to his ear. “Yes?” 

“Eiji, Ash is probably already headed towards you.” It’s Shorter, somewhat out of breath and no doubt distressed. 

The steady pace of Eiji’s heart picks up, but he doesn’t budge from his seat. 

“I mean, if he wanted you alone, he could’ve just _told_ me. Are you okay? Are you gonna leave?” 

”I’m fine.”

Whenever Eiji says it, he realizes that it isn’t really just to make the people around him think he isn’t drowning, but because he’s trying to convince himself that he’s fine. That he’s okay. That everything will be alright. 

People already have to carry their own burdens. He doesn’t understand how it’s right to give them more of his when they’re already struggling as much as he is… or possibly even more. It makes him guilty, so even if it makes them disappointed in him… even if they push him away as a result or grow distant, he says it’s better this way.

But for some reason, that one person always comes back. He’s like an echo that won’t even dissipate in a room, always reaching Eiji’s side at every rebound. Like the oceans trapped inside a conch. 

When Eiji closes his eyes, he can hear his voice next to him. 

“Hey, Ei-chan.” 

Ah… it’s deafening. 

“I’ll be okay, Shorter. Please don’t worry.” He ends the call without waiting for a response.

The stool scrapes the floor as Ash turns it around, probably resting his arms across the back of it. Eiji doesn’t turn to face him.

“Shorter’s gonna yell at me later for that.” 

When Eiji doesn’t say anything, Ash sighs, and it drags out into infinity. “You… go back and forth which, to me at least, makes it hard to reach you. One moment, you seem perfectly fine, and the next, you’re not. You’re elusive even though you seem to be the reliable type of person, and it’s frustrating that I don’t know you as well as I want to.” Pausing, he taps his fingers against the metal frame of the stool. “So, I thought to myself, if Eiji is like the waves, never settling for the shores or the ocean, I wonder if I should just walk out there and try to grab a hold of him even if the water enters my lungs a chokes me. Even if you can’t hold water because it doesn’t conform to one shape. But it’s more painful to watch them leave than to hold on tightly.” 

Eiji presses his lips together, eyes fixed on the coarse grain of the black marble counter.

“It sounds like I’ll lose either way, but I admit I’ve been steering clear from my past too.” 

_If you tell me, it will be harder to let go._

“Eiji, if… if I stop running away from you, will you stop running away from me?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!!! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡


	11. Chapter 11

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _I am getting swept away by this overwhelming feeling I don’t even know the name of._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger warning for non-con (though it's not explicit at all) and panic attacks. (I don't usually put warnings before my chapters since mine are never as explicit/jarring as others I've read before, but I figure I should start warning you all just in case!)

What could he have done to make the whole situation better?

Ash doesn’t fucking know. 

When he first came to the agency at age eight after having bawled his eyes out during the three consecutive nights his brother didn’t come back home, he felt empty. 

Was it the tears that stripped him of everything he was feeling inside?

In retrospect, it probably wasn’t that. In fact, it was far, _far_ from that. 

He wants to believe it’s because he finally calmed down and accepted his fate.

After all, Golzine was the one who paid for the funeral and drive him there in a fancy black car before standing with him in an empty plot of land with the sun shining above even though it was already near the beginning of October. 

There was no one there with him but the fancy casket with his precious brother lying inside, pale as a white sheet of paper, eyes glued shut, fingers laid over his chest with a single white rose tucked beneath, thorns digging into his skin. No blood welled to the surface because most of it had already been drained from his body.

_That’s not my brother. That’s not him._

Ash kept on denying it the whole time that priest murmured things from the Bible with his hand over Ash’s brother like he was finally laying him down to rest from whatever ailment he had been enduring.

When the casket was lowered six feet underneath the ground, the smell of wet dirt and a freshly dug grave mixing with the stench of Golzine’s sweat as he stood there quite solemnly, Ash made the decision to forget his brother. To forget the warmth of his hands and believe the words that were whispered in his ear.

_”I’m sorry for your loss.”_

What they meant to say was: “Your brother couldn’t handle the world anymore, so he decided to leave it behind along with you.”

His brother used to be strong. His brother did whatever he could to raise Ash in the way his parents would have, but he failed in the end. So now Ash has to listen to the old man next to him and pretend he’s his dad. 

_Fucking disgusting._

“Huh?” The twins—Sasha and Misha—in front of him recoil, and there is fear printed in their eyes. But he knows it’s not just his quick temper that causes them to tread lightly wherever they go. “W-we’re sorry, boss—”

Ash sighs, sliding halfway down the sofa he was previously curled up against. “It’s not you two—I’m thinking about something else.” He holds out a hand, and Sasha places a folder in it. It’s another high-ranking person who is affiliated with Golzine, with evidence to that tie arranged neatly behind his profile. “Mm, this is good.”

“Alcohol works like a charm on him.”

The corner of Ash’s mouth quirks up. “Despite how he looks, that senator can’t handle more than a few glasses. Sweet talking and pouring him consecutive shots doesn’t take much effort, does it?”

The twins shake their heads.

He holds a hand out. 

They stare at it.

Ash shakes it. “The drug. I gave it to you just in case, but you didn’t use it, right?”

Misha and Sasha exchange glances. “You… never gave us anything?”

Blinking, Ash takes back his hand. Must be because of lack of sleep. “My mistake. Don’t worry about that.” Letting out a breath of air, he hops up from his seat, tucking the folder underneath his arm. “I’m gonna deal with this, and see if Golzine will give you two a break next week.” He ruffles their hair, making their blond waves flop over their forehead, and offers a smile. “You guys did well.”

Ash knows he can’t do much for them, but maybe this is enough. For now, at least.

-

He tells himself that this could fall apart at any point in time—that Golzine could get rid of him despite the resources he’s poured into getting him where he is now. That despite all the precautions Ash has taken, one tiny misstep is all it takes for everything to go down in flames. But the thing that scares him the most is that the boys he’s convinced into helping him compile information on Golzine’s illegal sex ring are going to fall the hardest. They don’t have the kind of insurance Ash has. Golzine could do away with them faster than Ash can take another breath.

But Ash can’t do this by himself, and he knows that having these boys by his side means having more influence over what they have to go through. Most times, he takes their place as a substitute, but when nothing can be done, he tries to lessen the amount of fear or pain they go through when they have to do it with some perverted old politician. 

Thinking about it makes the frustration and seething anger run deeper in his bones. 

Kids shouldn’t be doing this kind of shit. 

But, of course, he’s not the one who makes the world’s rules. It’s the elites in society—those at the top of the hierarchy who get to bend everyone else to their will. The power flow is from top-down. It always has been and forever will be. Ash still doesn’t know why it’s so difficult for him to wrap his head around that and give everything up. 

Before, it wasn’t in his nature to go against authority. He thought he was the perfect little kid—the perfect little brother and the perfect little son. 

But the world made him cruel. 

He’s done with functionalist views on society. None of this is made to be for a specific reason that shouldn’t be questioned and resisted. 

_All_ of it should be carefully looked at and examined before it’s decided whether it is to be trusted.

That’s what half of him wants to think, but the other, _real_ half of him is desperately trying to break away from the chains Golzine has fixed around his collar without so much as rationalizing the entire thing.

He lets out a long sigh, pressing the pads of his fingers against his forehead, squeezing his eyes shut. The screen in front of him is bright compared to the darkness that closes in on him. Since a long time ago, he’s been typing up the information he as well as his boys have gathered in one of the reading rooms at the NYPL. As far as he’s concerned, no one ever bothers him here which makes it the perfect spot to do his work in.

After inputting what the twins have gotten, Ash saves it to his thumb drive and shuts his laptop before slipping it into his bag.

His feet take him past multiple bookshelves down to the very end of the reference section that holds a bunch of old textbooks no one ever reads anymore. The flash drive fits into that tiny space he hollowed out, and once he’s done, he’s already outside, slipping into an alleyway.

Pulling out the folder Sasha and Misha gave him earlier today, he flicks on a lighter, letting the corner of the folder catch on fire. The flames grow, licking up the side of the folder, the paper warping and turning to ash. 

_Ash._

As he watches the fire consume what’s left of that piece of information, Ash wonders if that’s what’s gonna be him in the future once Golzine is tired of him. He wonders if he’s going to be tossed away like that or if he’s going to be forever tied up like a pet, orange dancing below his feet, the feeling of it palpable enough that he can sense the heat searing through the flesh underneath his skin.

He doesn’t want either of those options. But the thing beating inside of him says he’d rather be wanted that killed and discarded like trash.

It’s horrible. This sensation. 

But at least the brain controls the heart, or maybe he’s already a lost cause.

He’s about to go back to his place when the ring of his phone cuts off his line of thought. Answering it without looking at the screen, Ash steps out of the alleyway, ignoring the odd look a random passerby gives him. 

“What?” 

“Golzine wants to see you.” Of course it’s Arthur.

“Don’t feel like it today.” 

He’s about to end the call when the voice at the end of the line sighs and says, “Alright; we’ll have someone else accompany him tonight.”

“Fucking do that, and I’ll _kill_ you.”

“So is that a yes?”

Ash wants to punch something. The twins are still at his place; he hopes they’ve already gone back to the hotel before anyone has noticed them gone for that long. He’s tired and beyond exhausted, but he doesn’t have much of a choice.

His grip on the phone tightens. “Fine.”

-

Before Ash is allowed to see Golzine—or, rather, before _any_ of the boys are allowed to see him, they all go through the lengthy process of having people wash them to ensure cleanliness and test them in case any of them have caught some kind of illness. Then, they go through the process of getting all dressed up and done up all pretty and whatever.

Ash, for one, can understand Golzine’s paranoia and partial mysophobia. The old man _never_ got his hands dirty if he couldn’t help it. But apparently it’s okay to make others do the manual labor for him. It’s okay if he treats the boys like fucking toilets to flush his revolting semen into. 

It’s incredibly hard to sit still in this process because whenever Ash gets called over, he’s either one, very, very, _very_ pissed; two, rushed since he has other important things to do; three, about to pass out because of the physical and mental strain he goes through on a daily basis; or, four, a combination of the above three. And, today, he’s feeling ready to hop out of the chair, fling open the windows, and scream.

“Could you stop moving, please?” The unfamiliar guy in front of him drags his chair closer, pinky pushing Ash’s chin up. It’s an unpleasant feeling that makes shivers run down Ash’s back, the back of his head suddenly throbbing, and he immediately scoots back, swiping the back of his hand across the bottom of his chin to get rid of some of the feeling. 

The guy sighs, a pot of cream liner unscrewed between his middle and ring finger while he grips a tiny brush between his thumb and pointer in annoyance. “I even asked politely.”

“Doesn’t matter if you’re nice,” Ash shoots back. “That’s not gonna change what’s coming next.” 

He looks at Ash unsympathetically, quirking up a brow. “You think I don’t know about Dino’s repulsive, perverted nightly activities? I do. The only reason why I haven’t died yet is because I can keep my mouth shut—unlike the previous guy who just got shipped off to hell.” 

“At least you know you’re going to hell,” Ash mutters.

“Chin up, _please._ And keep still.”

Ash complies, fingers curling around the cushion of his stool. The anger balls up in his chest, and when he swallows, the fire burns all the way down his throat. He’s tried hard liquor before, and the feeling doesn’t even compare to what he’s experiencing right now. 

When the guy finishes the makeup, he hands Ash a pair of khaki shorts before rummaging through the rest of the clothes.

Ash pulls it on, tucking his shirt into it even though he knows it’s gonna come off anyways in the next five minutes. 

After tying a ribbon around Ash’s collar, the guy gives him a once-over before nodding to himself. 

“If you’re so good at dressing people up, why not work for an actual good company that’s not shady as fuck?” 

“I have no connections or even a single good thing to put on my resume. It’s easier working here when you need the money fast.”

“You’re gonna have to do it for the rest of your life.” 

Scoffing, his eyes flicker up. “I’m a poor-as-fuck high-school dropout with zero support, no insurance, a drug-addicted mother, and a terminally-ill little brother who’s in the hospital. Do you think I’ve ever _thought_ about that?” 

Ash pauses for a moment. He thinks about his parents who disappeared when he was five and his brother who up and killed himself one day. “Who cares? They’re both going to die one day, anyway. Why fuck yourself up along the way?” He doesn’t mean this; he doesn’t mean it at all, but the words still come out, painfully blunt and insensitive. 

“I wouldn’t expect you to understand,” the guy says. “You’re too messed up already.”

The words don’t even get to Ash. “Uh-huh, that I am.” 

He leaves before the guy can say anything else. Before he has half the strength to push him to the ground and give him a good punch or two in the face. He wants to scream and swear at him, yelling that he’s throwing away a perfectly good self who could potentially go places if he maybe idealized his future more and tried _hard_ , but as that guy has already said: Ash can’t possibly understand. The difference is that he’s too hardened—too rough around the edges and angry at his family. 

The grudge against them has dissipated ever since he forgot what they even looked like, but the pain is still fresh when he realizes none of them ever cared enough about him. 

Ash follows one of Golzine’s men through the halls, stopping to go inside a dark room when he’s instructed to. 

He feels a hand pushing him forward to a corner of the room, and even though it repulses him, he tries not to let it affect him too much. He’s forced onto a chair, arms pulled behind, and ties secured just tight enough around his wrists. They’re surprisingly not rough to the touch—some fabric made of cotton or something else that didn’t slip easily. 

When the lights turn on after a bit of waiting, the harshness of it stings at Ash’s eyes. But it takes moments for him to adjust to it all.

Misha and Sasha are on separate beds, both with their hands tied up against the wooden headboards, gags around their mouths. They don’t have a single article of clothing on, and Ash doesn’t know whether they’re shivering from fear or because they’re cold. 

He jerks up, nearly tripping when the seat of his chair presses against the back of his knees, his shoulders shrieking with pain from the sudden movement. His heart is thudding in his chest, vision red. 

The twins shake harder, new tears forming in their large eyes, whimpers muffled by the gag when they see Ash. 

_“What the fuck?”_

Hands grab the chair before Ash finds himself face-down on the floor, righting it as the legs clatter against the floor.

“I should hire someone to rectify your speech.”

The voice ices his veins. Ash’s heart stops.

“Why are you so surprised?” Golzine’s runs thick fingers up the front of Ash’s shirt, yanking his head back. The smile he gives him frightens Ash to the core, but it also incites the ball of fire he swallowed twenty minutes ago when he was with that new makeup guy. “Arthur called earlier informing you of such a meeting.”

Ash twists his face away. “What do the twins have anything to do with this?” If Golzine is going to make him _watch—_

Golzine dangles a tiny glass vial of white powder, and Ash can feel buzzing in his ears. “You thought we wouldn’t find out after leaving such blatant evidence behind?”

The twins must have dropped it in the hotel room without knowing. Ash had hidden it inside of a bag along with a disposable camera and a few other necessities as per usual. So out of it, he completely forgot to tell them about it, so they never noticed when they’d lost and left it behind.

Forgetting all his skills in smoothing over unsavory situations and winning in political or otherwise complicated talk, Ash scrambles to say something. “They have _nothing_ to do with it; _I’m_ the one who put it there—”

Ash can hear the vial shatter as Golzine slams it into the glass table behind him. The noise makes the twins yelp in fright. Ash flinches, the beat in his chest quickening. It feels like it’s about to jump up into his throat.

He fucked up. He fucked up _bad._ It’s possible that he could’ve gotten away clean. Even though Golzine knew he didn’t follow every command of his, he at least trusted him more than those who requested the services he provided. 

If Ash had just kept his mouth shut or stared at the bottle blankly, he might’ve gotten Golzine to believe it’s that Senator who tried using the drug on the twins. He might’ve weaseled his way out of this problem as he always so seamlessly did on other occasions. 

But he knows it’s because of everything else he’s been going through that’s catching up to him. He should’ve held back for a few weeks, put a pause on his gathering of information. He also knows Golzine would’ve found out about this one day, but not like this. Not with this many risks. Now, he’s keeping silent, lips glued shut even when he feels light-headed from the rapid breaths that are coming out from his nose. But the silence is now for nothing.

“Playing ‘nice big brother’ isn’t going to save anyone, Aslan,” Golzine hisses. “Playing ‘journalist’ for the press, and ‘boss’ of an underground gang isn’t going to get you anywhere. You naively believed I wouldn’t know about your intentions to reveal what I’ve been hiding— _believing_ that there is no one out there who could possibly thwart your plans.”

“Your dirt is with _me,”_ Ash manages to growl. But it’s harsh on his throat, the words barely making it out. “Why are hurting them when _I’m_ the one who’s trying to get you behind bars?” 

Golzine stares at him. “You don’t care about yourself, but I know you care for those two.” He straightens, facing the door. “Come in.” 

It’s at that moment when two men in black suits walk in like angels of death. But if Ash was wishing that Misha and Sasha got a swift execution, his hopes were just as dead as the corpses buried six feet under. 

Ash loses it. Now he’s hysterical, desperately trying to pull his hands out of the bonds tying him to the chair, legs kicking against it. His bangs swing wildly in front of his face, fire burning in his eyes. ”Touch them and I’ll fucking _murder_ you fucking bastards! Fucking pieces of dirt, assholes, cock-sucking _pricks—”_

A crack breaks off his sentence, then pain blossoms across his cheek as the metallic tang of blood coats the inside of his mouth. His eyes mist over with immediate tears, shoulder and head stinging from crashing against the solid ground.

He hears Golzine call for one of the men in black suits to pick him up from the floor and sit him upright. Blood dribbles from the corner of Ash’s mouth down his chin, staining the front of his white shirt scarlet. 

_“Shut up.”_ Golzine’s voice is steely.

Ash is too shocked to really say anything else, reeling from the fall—from the backhand, from what’s about to happen.

His mind is numb as Golzine clamps his hand on his down on Ash’s shoulders, hot breath against his ear. _”You_ are the one who did this to them, Aslan. It’s _you_ who led them to this fate.”

The men in black suits unhook their belts, sliding it off before depositing them onto the floor. Then, they’re unzipping their trousers, pushing the front down. 

Misha and Sasha flail against their constraints, the whites of their eyes visible, almost illuminated by the lights above them.

When the men untie the gags around the twins’ mouths, their shrill cries for help, Ash’s name on their lips, them pulling their bodies towards the other twin in a vain attempt to seek comfort from the one they love and trust more than anyone else in the world completely destroys Ash. It _slaughters_ him thoroughly, the sword piercing through his stomach up to the hilt, twisting in such a way that brings unimaginable pain as his heart sputters like a clock that’s just about to go out of commission. 

Golzine forces his face forward to witness the entire scene even though Ash is screaming again. But the noise eventually dies out, his throat hoarse, the twins unnaturally quiet. And what replaces it is his silent crying, the sobs lodged in his throat, face a sticky and wet mess. 

He can barely breathe when the men leave the room. Sasha and Misha are unmoving, blood across the sheets. Cleaners come in to drag their bodies out, stripping the sheets as one of them undoes the ties around Ash’s wrists. 

His arms fall forward, sharp aches stabbing at his shoulders from being at an uncomfortable angle for so long, burning his upper arms as they’ve been pressed against hard wood. 

A cleaner hauls him up, expecting him to stand, but his legs won’t work, and he crumples. So they’re carrying him out before depositing him on a clean bed, Golzine entering and closing the door behind him once they leave. 

Ash can’t remember what happens after that.

-

It’s cold, but Ash doesn’t bother to crawl under the sheets. As a matter of fact, he can’t, because his entire body hurts so much he wants to die. He wants to fucking die and disappear without leaving a trace on earth because he’s too chock-full of sin to even justify being buried, having his ashes confined in an urn, or letting his remains be deposited somewhere. He’s gonna contaminate something or someone—get them hurt when they don’t deserve it at all.

But more than his body, the searing pain that’s stabbing at his heart with pitchforks aches more than anything else. 

He wants to cry, but he barely has the strength to.

He’s like a statue, fully and utterly still. Even when he hears the door open with a click, the shadow of a tall figure inching closer to him, he doesn’t move.

“That’s a nasty bruise you’ve got there on your cheek,” an unfamiliar voice says, but it lowers when its owner sweeps his eyes across the rest of Ash’s body. “And pretty much everywhere else, I’ll say.”

A hand reaches out, but before it can so much as brush against Ash’s face, he snarls, the sound scratchy and irritating his sore throat. _”Don’t fucking touch me.”_

Ash can see the figure more clearly when the early sunlight hits his face. It’s a man—seemingly taller than his stretched-out shadow and well-built. Dark hair slips out from a low ponytail, sliding across broad shoulders clad in a long, wool coat. 

There’s a slightly amused expression on the man’s face, but his smile and the look in his eyes are sad. “This is the first thing you choose to say to your savior?” 

“I can’t be saved,” Ash mutters.

“Emotionally and mentally, no, not yet, but physically, yes.” Gingerly laying half the sheet over Ash’s bare skin, the man sits down, the mattress sinking underneath his weight. “I made a deal with the Monsieur. Tying off all the loose ends in his most recent predicament in exchange for your freedom. For now, at least.” 

Ash has heard people call Golzine ‘Monsieur,’ but the title is usually followed by his name. “Why?” 

The man chuckles. “The Monsieur thinks I’ll be able to reform you if you’re under my care for some time. Suffice it to say that he honestly just wants you away from his whole operation for a while.”

“‘Cause he’s scared shitless.”

This makes him bend over with full-on laughter. 

Ash turns his head so he can see the man better. He doesn’t know what’s so funny about this whole thing.

Wiping tears away, the man nods. “You could assume so.” He lays a hand on Ash’s shoulder, over the sheets, and it’s so unexpectantly gentle and warm that Ash almost bursts out crying. 

“Now, how the Monsieur could treat his precious tool he’s been polishing for such a long time is beyond me.”

“I’m—” His voice cracks, and he has to swallow. “I’m _not_ his ‘tool.’”

“His words; not mine. Now, then.” Straightening, the man scoops Ash up, bundled in covers and all. “You’re in need of some serious aftercare, and you’re lucky because I like pampering people. Usually, women, but I can’t leave someone I have to take home all bloody and bruised of course.” 

Ash doesn’t respond.

“What? No snarky comeback?” 

The man offers one of the passing maids who come in to clean the house twice a week a sweet smile. “Could you get a bath running, darling?” 

She blushes, then nods, leading them to an empty bathroom before turning on the water, waiting until it’s halfway full, and opening the cabinet to pull out a few necessities. 

“And some gauze, salve, cotton balls, plus a change of clothes for the boy, if possible?” 

When she leaves, the man tests the water temperature first before partially unwrapping Ash and slowly lowering him down into the bath, pulling the sheets away before they touch the water. “Tell me if it’s too hot or if you’re ever uncomfortable, okay?” 

Ash waits for the maid to come back with everything the man requested. Warm water runs down his neck, soothing the ring of bruises there, and soon, the man is working a thick lather through Ash’s hair, fingers gentle against his scalp. 

Ash has to break away from the initial calming feeling of melting into nothingness before he can speak. “Your name.”

“Hm?” 

“What’s your name?”

“Blanca. And you?” The man asks, “What would you like me to call you?”

Ash thinks about it for a long time. Golzine is virtually the only one who uses his full name. “Ash is good.” 

“Just Ash?”

“Mm-hm.”

“Well then, Ash, what do you want for breakfast?”

-

What Ash tells Eiji is the abridged version of what happened before he and Golzine temporarily parted ways.

But it’s enough for him to understand what exactly Ash has gone through. Ash looks at his hands. Assuming Shorter or someone else didn’t already tell him.

“I’ve kept the files in the same place; I haven’t touched them since, but they’re still there,” he says. “A part of me wanted to do away with it and destroy it, but that would mean erasing evidence of what has happened and making light of those who died in the process.”

Silence cuts in between them. Ash doesn’t know what to do next, so he swallows, fiddling with his fingers. “Eiji?” 

“I need some time to let it sink in,” he answers without turning around.

Ash desperately wants to see his face, but he knows Eiji likes having his space when he needs to think. Crossing those carefully-set boundaries during a serious moment like this meant forcing his way in. And Ash didn’t want to man-handle the situation; he wanted to ease himself inside the confines of Eiji’s heart. However hard it already was.

“Okay.” He lets out a puff of air. “I’ll be at my apartment if you wanna talk today. Otherwise, I hope to see you at the agency tomorrow.”

He feels heavy when the pushes the button on the elevator, heavier when he steps in and leaves the bar. When he puts on his helmet and pushes his kickstand back, pulling out of the parking lot, he feels an impossible weight on his back—just as Zeus condemned Atlas to carry the weight of the heavens for all eternity.

Ash thought he’d feel lighter letting this all out, but, of course, he feels worse.

Because more than anything else, he wants Eiji to comfort him and tell him it’s okay, but how can he possibly do that when he himself is in pain?

Hands gripping the handlebars, Ash tells himself to be patient even as the backs of his eyes burn and his throat constricts.

-

_I am getting swept away by this overwhelming feeling I don’t even know the name of._

Everything runs past Eiji like a current, the rushing water unforgiving. It feels like it’s going to tear his skin off, bite into the flesh and rip it right off the bones. 

And yet, Eiji is still walking into the New York Public Library—past those stone lions and through the arching entrance to a room filled with books and long wooden tables.

He imagines Ash sitting down in front of one of them, thumbing through the pages of a classic or mindlessly tracing his fingers down the spines in the reference section on some random topic just to curb his boredom. 

Ash, like anyone else in the world, is only another normal person with secrets deep in his soul. He’s a little lost, a lot younger than he looks—someone who Eiji believes has been wandering around for far too long. Perhaps someone who wants to settle the things he hasn’t yet been able to confront in the past. They’re dangerous things. Things that are far more precarious than what others face. Eiji wants to believe he sees him through the same light he likes to regard everyone else with, but the truth is that he _doesn’t._

The boy has had his face plastered all over Times Square and popular magazines. He’s walked during a few seasons and shot campaigns for designers, but, to Eiji, he’s a lot more than that. More special than his public image. And Eiji wonders what would’ve happened to him if he hadn’t accepted Ibe’s offer to come to New York on a whim.

Back then, he couldn’t have cared less, but the moment he met Ash, something that laid dormant for months stirred. It’s completely cliché and he’s not the heroine in some kind of cheesy shoujo manga, but it was _real_ and it was _there._

Even if it took him two whole months to realize that.

The place Ash mentions he hid the flash drive is devoid of anyone. But then again, Eiji wonders if he would’ve hidden something so important in a place that many people have access to. In between two volumes of old physics theories that have already been revised and rewritten is an equally thick volume, the spine embossed with some title Eiji doesn’t take much time reading out. He pulls it out, dust unlodging from the shelf and shooting out in front of his face before floating in the beam of light above him. 

It’s small, but there’s a gap between one of the self dividers and the back panel—one that’s so Eiji has to use a card from his wallet to slide through and detach the supposed tiny flash drive taped to the inside. It clatters onto the bottom shelf, and after pulling out a few books underneath, Eiji finds a thin, black flash drive, part of the tape still stuck to it. 

Holding it in his hands, it’s hard to believe that Golzine’s fate lies within the documents saved inside of it. 

Eiji’s blood pressure spikes at the thought of it, and he has to take a deep breath before sliding it in a mini bag and tucking it in one of the inner pockets of his zippered tote.

He’s already repeated this in his mind while in a taxi on the way to the library, but he has to take a deep breath before stepping away from that wooden bookshelf and outside, the evidence burning into his side. 

Just one look without telling Max and Ibe, then deciding whether or not it’s worth it to spread across the news. If there is anything too sensitive or information that can be wrongly manipulated, Eiji isn’t going to let anyone know. He’s going to put the flash drive back, and pretend he never heard Ash when he last spoke to him at Shorter’s penthouse.

Ibe is waiting for him when he gets home, and Max is unsurprisingly there as well, a can of beer popped open next to him. 

He has his forehead pressed against the wooden counter, tawny brown hair messy from all the countless times he has probably run his fingers through it. Eiji doesn’t know what’s going through his mind, nor much of what he talks about to Ibe, but he’s heard tidbits of information from the conversations they’ve had with each other. Something about not being able to see his son and ex-wife. Or something like that.

“Ah, welcome home, Ei-chan,” Ibe says, hanging a hand towel back across the edge of the sink. His face isn’t flushed which means he decided to skip out on drinking today. _Surprising._

“I’m… back.”

“Do you want dinner, or will you eat later?”

Eiji gives a cursory glance at the table, seeing plastic wrap over salad, grilled fish, and tamagoyaki. “I’ll eat later; I have some important things to do first.”

“Alright. You promise you’ll eat, yes?” Ibe calls as Eiji retreats back into his room.

He offers a hand up in agreement.

The emotions that previously coursed through him like a thousand great waves have already settled down to mere laps against a quiet shore. But Eiji has a feeling that even though he’s oddly calm after sitting in a taxi for twenty minutes and mulling everything over in his head, none of what he’s rehearsed he’ll do is actually going to happen.

Taking a deep breath before letting it out shakily, Eiji closes the door behind him before plugging the mini flash drive into his laptop, flipping the screen up. He somewhat surprised over the fact that Ash didn’t take the time to put a password or bury the information in some kind of code, but he supposes it makes it easier for him to access everything. But then again, why would Ash tell him where the thumb drive is if he didn’t expect him to go out, get it, and look through it?

Even though Eiji can’t exactly say he’s a complete novice at understanding other people’s emotions since he, well, basically _does_ most of the time, it’s definitely the first time he’s putting a filter through the emotions someone has. Now that Ash is… more than just a friend and an acquaintance, there are attachments and feelings Eiji himself has that blurs the line between truth and fiction. 

_Can I really believe Ash likes me in_ that _way, or am I just mistaking his words and actions as something lost in translation from one culture to another?_

While that might be the ending result for others, Eiji is sure that’s another doubt his brain is making up just to mess with him and make him misunderstand things even more than he already has.

Lost in translation?

He’s not going to lie to himself anymore; he heard Ash crystal clear when he asked him not to run away anymore.

The very fact that Ash has stopped widening the fissures between them first is a sure enough sign.

A notification pops up on the dark screen, and Eiji clicks on the button to accept the drive before opening it up. His heart his quivering, but his fingers don’t tremble at all when he swipes through the files all at once without opening them up.

They’re labeled with names—most of which sound like they belong to White American males. But one mass folder has the surname Lee typed out in all caps. 

Eiji’s finger hovers over the file folder before tapping down, lightly. Multiple folders explode out in front of him, nearly filling up the entire screen. He opens the first one.

There are multiple pictures, all painstakingly dated with names underneath as well as captions.

>> _It’s beginning to become super clear that the Lees are the ones supplying Golzine with kids. They’re the ones who are called over to clean up his mess—the ones getting their hands dirty and relaying Golzine’s messages through Club Cod. The agency is a lame cover-up._

Heart thudding in his chest, cotton stuffed in his throat, Eiji allows himself to scroll down halfway until he finds a picture of Yut-Lung stopping in front of a dilapidated apartment home, rummaging through his bag. The next photo shows him typing a blindfold over his eyes, and the next has him opening up the door, stepping in. A close-up of a blurry tattoo creeping up above the collar of a man’s sleeveless tee is pasted directly under.

>> _This kid comes here almost once every week and doesn’t leave until morning. He’s seeing some old dude who doesn’t have ties to Golzine or the Lees. Can’t be sure, but it looks like he’s from Chinese mafia._

Closing the folder, Eiji has to swallow hard before finding the one name Max has been out for for years. 

_Golzine, Dino._

It’s formatted the same way, with folders and whatnot. There are photos of him with people he is no doubt well-acquainted with—all men who are part of the underground organization he runs. It documents events from when Ash was perhaps only ten and cuts off four years later.

Before pulling the flash drive out altogether, the last file folder catches Eiji’s attention. It’s left unnamed, completely blank of any label that would otherwise let him know what it will contain. But he presses his cursor on it anyway, and finds about two dozen _.mov_ files. All of the thumbnails are black. 

Eiji clicks on one.

He barely watches five seconds of it before slamming the screen of his laptop down. 

And then he’s feeling that buzzing at the back of his mind, subtle but rushing forward like his brain is short-circuiting and cutting off electricity to all the parts of his body so he doesn’t work. 

The momentum—the tangible _realization_ of what exactly Ash has really gone through doesn’t even pass through Eiji’s mind because he can’t think at all right now. Oh god. _Oh god oh god oh god_ —he can’t _think._ The sound of his erratic heartbeat to his ears, low against his head and high above his ears, the air that only constricts in his lungs. Fear burns through him like fire and poison laced in his veins.

Suddenly, it feels like he’s dying all over again. Like he’s drowning but in the most painful way possible.

Eiji’s chair slips out from underneath him, rolling back and hitting the edge of his bed frame as he collapses and curls up against himself, pressing his hands against his ears, eyes squeezing shut, imaginary fingers clawing at his chest and throat.

He doesn’t even realize Ibe pulling both his hands away from his ringing ears and clamping his own hands down and around them. Max is at the doorway, frozen and completely at a loss for what to do.

Ibe is counting slowly in Japanese with lengthy pauses in between each number, from one to ten, over and over and over. Eiji can’t hear, but he can see Ibe’s lips moving through slightly warped vision.

 _It’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay, it’s okay—_ He lets out a long, forced exhale before following the rhythm of the numbers, allowing each one to penetrate into his brain as he breathes in and out. He takes in the echoes even though they’re faint, blinking away tears, fingers tightening around Ibe’s knuckles.

And it becomes very clear that he’s not getting any better—not at the rate he’s going. 

“Are you feeling better?”

His muscles are a little sore from constricting them for so long, but Eiji nods. It would have been worse if Ibe wasn’t here. 

“Are you…” Ibe pauses. “Are you okay with telling me what happened?”

Eiji closes his eyes, letting out a breath of air. He wasn’t going to do this—he _told_ himself he wasn’t going to tell Max or Ibe, but he didn’t know how to approach the situation without doing so. So he just gets up, stumbling a little before pointing at his laptop. 

He turns his head and crosses his arms together, fingers digging into his upper arms.

Ibe immediately mutes the video before closing it, unplugging the flash drive from the USB port. 

“What do you want me to do with this, Ei-chan?” 

He’s not taking it to Max, and quite frankly, Max doesn’t even look like he wants to take the drive. He’s as pale as a ghost, still hovering near the threshold, lips pressed against each other. 

“Please—” Eiji lets out another huff of air, “—put it back.” 

Ibe nods. “Alright. You can tell me where tomorrow morning.” He offers Eiji a kind smile—the one he gave on the day they first met. “Do you still want dinner?”

He felt sick to his stomach some time ago, but the effects are wearing off. The more he breathes in and lets it out, the more clear-headed and stable he is. Refusing to eat any more than this would mean getting unwell and putting himself in a worse state than already.

“Yeah.” He nods. “I… haven’t eaten in a while.” 

Sighing in relief, Ibe drops the thumb drive in Max’s hand before curling a hand over Eiji’s shoulder. “Let us do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I wrote the majority of this last night from nine till three in the morning and boy, what a bad idea.)
> 
> As always, thank you for reading. :')


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I can’t be saved.”

This can go really wrong, _really_ fast. 

And probably the worst part of it is that despite the fact that Sing knows, he’s still going forward with his plans. In fact, he’s about ninety-nine percent certain he’s going to get flat-out, unsympathetically rejected by Yut-Lung, but his legs are still taking him up the stairs to his floor. 

Talk about impulsiveness in youth. The common trend in everything he has been involved with during the last few years of his life is that he can't let this sort of thing go until he blurts it out. 

So now he’s going to do just that—say it before his idiot brain can process everything and stop himself from doing it. 

Yut-Lung’s door is unlocked—as per usual, which Sing is somewhat concerned about but, at the same time, completely nonchalant about because all of Yut-Lung’s neighbors are probably rich-ass people themselves and don’t need to invade someone else’s apartment in order to get something. 

They say money doesn’t buy happiness—which is true to some superficial degree—but it sure does buy you a whole lot of other things. Illegal stuff, too, if you’re wealthy enough. 

Silently closing the door behind him, Sing steps out of his shoes at the entrance and knocks on the wall beside him to announce his presence. “Yue? You here?” 

When there’s no response, Sing decides to wander to Yut-Lung’s bedroom, pushing the door open with his foot just a crack to peek in through. It’s just Yut Lung sprawled across the mattress— _thank god—_ so Sing opens the rest of the door, leaving it ajar, and padding in. 

_”Seriously—”_ Sing mutters, “If you can’t wake up, why bother asking me to come in so early?” 

“It’s called having a bit of motivation to actually get up rather than spending the rest of the day in bed,” Yut-Lung mumbles, face muffled against his pillow. 

“But the only difference is that you _still_ don’t get up.” 

Groaning, Yut-Lung pushes himself up, black hair sliding over his thin shoulders. There’s a dark cloud over his features, eyes drawn flat, a frown carved into his face. He looks like he’s gone to hell and come right back up after slaying Satan or something like that. And quite frankly, Sing has never seen him look so horrible before. 

“What happened to _you?”_

“Party,” he spits out, arching his back and wincing simultaneously. “Everything hurts.” Then, he switches to Catonese to mutter to himself. “Apparently, no one there knows when enough is enough. Who the fuck decides to shove _another_ dick up a guy’s ass— _fucking hell.”_

Sing bristles at this, but keeps his expression neutral. “Do you need some painkillers or something?” 

“I don’t have any.”

“I can run to the drug store—”

“It’s fine.” Yut Lung slides his legs off the bed, readjusting the robe he has on so it's not half-hanging off his body. After a while of coming here, Sing realizes that Yut Lung probably never changes into new clothes after putting on one of the various robes he has in his dresser. Unless he needs to go to a shoot or event.

Sing is doubtful. “You sure?”

Huffing, Yut-Lung pushes his long hair behind his shoulders, standing as if the pain was never there in the first place. “Have I ever not been?”

In reality, Sing wants to say something along the lines of _“You probably have. At least once in your lifetime, of course, since you_ are _human after all.”_ but he holds his tongue because Yut-Lung isn’t going to listen to a word he says if it's against something he seems adamant about. 

“Want me to make some tea?” 

He pauses for a moment. “Sure.”

“Flavor?” 

Yut-Lung waves a hand in the air, disappearing into the bathroom. His voice bounces off the white walls. “Whatever you wish to drink.”

Sing nods, even though he knows Yut-Lung can’t see him, then traces his steps back into the kitchen, putting a kettle on the stove to boil water. He’s familiar with where the tea is, but it’s on the top shelf in the upper cabinets, so he has to lift himself up on the tips of his toes to reach it. It’s embarrassing and totally worsens his height complex, but he has gotten used to it for the most part. Somehow.

An unopened box of jasmine green tea sits at the very back. Shrugging, Sing grabs that one and puts three scoops into the teapot—”one for each person and one for the pot”—is what Shorter would say. It’s just about had three minutes to steep before Sing serves it in matching cups, the insides painted glossy red while the outside is a matte black. 

The jasmine is strong. There’s something about the aroma that soothes him.

“So? Did something noteworthy happen to Ash, or is he still chasing after that Japanese boy?” 

Yut-Lung slides into the seat in front of Sing, hesitating briefly before taking a sip of tea. The steam curls up almost too delicately, flushing his typically pale cheeks, and the stray hairs that frame his face coil subtly. 

Beauty has never been that important in Sing’s life, but the sight actually makes his heart squeeze a little. It’s kind of weir, maybe—the fact that seeing Yut-Lung as less than his perfect self is ideal in Sing’s mind. 

Maybe all this has developed too fast, but then again, feelings didn’t really run on a strict timetable. 

“He’s still…” Sing clears his throat. “He’s still the same, really.”

“Hm. No progress in the relationship, then?” 

Sing shakes his head. “Stuff _is_ happening. Just at a slower pace than I’m sure Ash wants.” 

“The Japanese boy is taking his time to respond.” 

“Yeah. His name is Eiji, by the way.”

“I know.”

“R-right. ‘Cause you never say his name, so I thought…”

Yut-Lung raises his brows as if saying _”So?”_ , prompting Sing to stop.

The silence is heavy between them, and Sing desperately wants to let out what he’s been planning on saying for a whole week, but it’s harder than he thought it was going to be. A whole lot harder than when he proposed the idea to Eiji a couple of days ago. 

Holding the cup with two hands, Sing brings it up to his lips, but before he can even taste the tea, the heat sears his mouth, and he jerks back, the cup tipping from his hand and shattering on the floor. The spilled liquid burns one of his hands, ceramic shards all over the ground. And for a split second, he actually has the time to panic, wondering if he should pick up the sharp pieces or treat his hand. 

“What the fuck are you _doing?”_

Yut-Lung grabs his arm, forcing it underneath cool water. 

Sing tries not to wince at the pain. He doesn’t know what hurts more—Yut-Lung’s grip or the actual burn. He presses his lips together, staring at it. “Sorry.”

“I never liked that tea set,” Yut-Lung mutters. “My brothers think they can control every little detail of my life down to the dishware I use, so this gives me an excuse to replace it.” He turns off the water, then pulls Sing all the way back to his room and into the bathroom. 

“I thought you’d get angry at me,” Sing says, watching as Yut-Lung fixes gauze over the tender skin after spreading some kind of ointment onto it.

Yut-Lung’s eyes flicker up. It’s not exactly an angry or disparaging look. It’s more so curious, to Sing’s surprise. “Do I appear to be a heartless person?” 

“Somewhat.” 

Wrapping a bandage around the wound, Yut-Lung seems to accept this. 

Sing starts to wonder how he got so good at patching people up, but the thought fades away when remembers the type of people Yut-Lung hangs out with. They’re not exactly the gentle type of people who will take care of the injuries they’ve made, after all. 

When Yut-Lung is finished, he wordlessly faces Sing, arms crossed over his chest. “Anything else?” 

The flash drive, of course. Sing knows that’s a critical piece of information Yut-Lung no doubt wants. And after meeting him like this for dozens of times, he also has an inkling of what Yut-Lung wants out of his reports on Ash. 

He went to the New York Public Library the day before and stopped right before the same bookshelf Eiji must have stared at, pulling out that thick textbook where the drive was taped flush against the wood. He contemplated taking it to give to Yut-Lung; he was ordered to do that sort of thing from day one. But he just couldn’t bring himself to. It was blatantly wrong. _Wrong_ in so many more ways than one. 

Sing wasn’t the right person to make that kind of judgment. 

But he still can’t _lie._ Not in front of Yut-Lung, much less anyone else. What he’s good at is evading the question.

“Something else you probably don’t wanna hear,” Sing says. And it’s true, for the most part. All god knows is that the ‘anything else’ could mean the feelings he has towards Yut-Lung.

Yut-Lung raises a brow. “I can be the judge of that.” 

“Trust me, you don’t.” Sing is already making his way back to the door, wanting to escape before he’s compelled to spit out everything. “Maybe I’ll tell you next time.”

When he looks up, Yut-Lung’s face is blank, his eyes lowered enough for his lashes to cast a shadow across his cheekbones. “No, there will be no next time.”

_Huh?_

Sing’s throat is dry, and he feels it burn a little when he swallows. Yut-Lung never told him today was the last time they’d be corresponding. He tries to suppress his shock temporarily; he hopes it’s working. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t want to see you anymore.”

Of all the ways he could have worded it, he chose to say it that way. Sing has to look away. “Well, the future changes easily.”

“The future is sealed by fate,” Yut-Lung responds. “You can keep the phone; text me if you somehow come across something important, though I don’t think you will.”

 _I take it back. I take back my words. You_ are _heartless, Yue._

Sing smiles, but the motion hurts his mouth. And when he says his goodbyes, he switches to Cantonese, pausing only enough to watch the surprise spark in Yut-Lung eyes before stepping out the door.

-

Yut-Lung doesn’t know if he was a little too harsh with that farewell. But then again, he usually didn’t dwell on how his words or lack of sensitivity to other people’s feelings was a problem. His mindset is that if they don't like what is coming out of his mouth, they might as well leave before even starting the conversation in the first place.

He still pauses for a moment, looking back at the door.

Perhaps he’s gotten a little too attached to the boy. 

Pulling up the tracker on his phone, he watches as the little red dot darts across a street—probably without waiting for the red light—before slowing down to a full stop. It moves again after a minute, the pace a slow walk.

Chewing on his lip, Yut-Lung closes the program before pressing on a contact. He definitely hurt him, but he’s not going to think about it. It doesn’t matter. At least, he’s _telling_ himself it doesn’t matter. 

“Hello?” Yue-Lung pulls out a thumb drive from the pocket of his robe. The vital piece of information he’d been waiting to come across. Sing chose not to tell him about it because he unquestionably has the brain to realize that Yut-Lung is only going to use it to the benefit of himself. He’s right in that some people are just that inconsiderate.

Yut-Lung is desperate. Furious for the longest time, holding onto that grudge he’s had ever since his brothers decided to fuck him over and ruin everything he once had to live for. 

“I heard you were interested in the Ash Lynx hiatus five years ago?”

There’s a pause at the end of the line.

“And you would be…?” 

“The youngest son of the Lee family.” 

The man stops talking altogether for several moments, and Yut-Lung sighs, twisting a lock of hair around his finger. “If you don’t have time to spare, I _could_ go to a different—”

“No, no, I’m free right now.” He hears a few things rustling in the background—a jacket, the clinking of keys being stuffed in the man’s pocket. “Where would you like to meet?” 

“I don’t have a preference. Send me an address, and I’ll be there in an hour.” 

Once he receives a text, Yut-Lung is undoing his robe, tossing it over his bed before pulling out the first few clothes he sees in his wardrobe. It’s all black—a dreary color associated with death. His culture loves golds and reds—ones that promise prosperity and luck, but the colors have always been too bright for him. 

The same chauffer Yut-Lung’s eldest brother hired for him is waiting in the basement as per usual, leaning against the car, arms crossed against his chest. When he spots Yut-Lung, he immediately opens the door, closing it softly behind him before sliding into the driver’s seat. “Where am I taking you?” 

Wordlessly, Yut-Lung gives his phone to him. 

He takes it, glancing at it once before offering it back. “Should I notify Wang-Lung?” 

“No; he doesn’t need to know.” 

_Because once this gets published tomorrow morning, he won’t be able to touch me._

Yut-Lung faces forward for once without letting his mind wander away outside the window. His eyes catch the chauffeur’s for a split second in the front view mirror. They belong to a man in his early thirties, but they’re still soft and the darkest brown. Innocent, even, though there’s a jaded edge to them. Like Sing’s. “When my brothers go to hell, would you like to work for me?”

-

Blanca calls well before seven in the morning to inform Ash of what he already knows. He’s telling Ash not to flip out and go on news outlets, but Ash isn’t listening. Because he’s already staring at his phone, the bold headlines rolling across the screen, stark against the white background.

There are tabloids popping up spewing nonsense, a handful of other magazines with different takes on the original newspaper’s account of Ash’s disappearance from Cape Cod Agency four years ago. 

It’s all framing. All interpretations that journalists and writers have pushed out into the public through this thing called media. 

Ash isn’t the only one; there’s Golzine’s name up there and the Lees in all their former glory. 

But the thing he’s worried about isn’t the information getting published; it's the pictures he’s taken to document Golzine’s involvement in the illegal sex ring, his partners, and his clients.

Ash wanted them to go to hell, but not like this. Not with all the photo evidence staring back at him and the rest of the whole fucking world. He doesn’t even want to think about if any of the videos of him and the other kids leaked onto some pedophiliac porn site, but the thought still makes a circle through his mind, a sour taste at the back of his throat. 

When he scrambles to the bathroom, nothing comes out. Just heavy tremors going through his body, his fingers as white as the porcelain of the toilet bowl. He hangs his head down, blond hair falling into his eyes, sticking to the nape of his neck. But his body is suddenly so weak he can’t even grasp onto anything, so he falls back against the tiled wall.

It’s too cold, but it sobers him a little.

_Eiji._

Letting out a shuddering breath of air, Ash opens his eyes, vision warbling. He gets up from the floor, tugging his damp shirt off before trading it for a new one and grabbing the first coat he can find. Stuffing his feet into sneakers, he grabs the keys to his bike despite the churning feeling in his stomach.

-

“Ibe-san.”

Eiji bursts into Ibe’s room, hands clutching Ibe’s phone in one hand. The screen is bright against the darkness of morning, a text from Max on the lock screen. He’d gotten up for some water, but he never expected Ibe’s phone to buzz on the counter, lighting up with a message Eiji is still trying to wrap his mind around. 

He’s shaking, other hand balled into a fist as Ibe gets up, groggily pressing his fingers into his eyes. 

“What’s wrong, Ei-chan?” 

Eiji shows him the screen. “You _promised_ me you were going to put the flash drive away, so why is Max saying his former colleague has already published everything on the news?” 

Grabbing the phone from Eiji, Ibe blinks at the message, pressing the power button on and off. But it’s still there. “I-I did.” He looks up, confused. “I placed it back—I don’t know why—”

“Oh my god.” Eiji’s voice trembles as he takes a step back, panic flooding his system. “Ash is going to think it’s me. He’s going to think _I’m_ the one who leaked the information. Because I told you and Max about the thumb drive. Oh my god, _oh my god—”_

 _“No—”_ Ibe starts to scramble off his bed, but calms down for a second before pulling the sheets back and sliding off. He’s gentle when he touches Eiji’s shoulder, making sure he’s okay.

Eiji shakes his head. “It’s _Ash.”_

“Yes, yes.” Ibe brings him into a hug, rubbing his back. “I know.” When Eiji relaxes, muscles unwinding, Ibe lets out a sigh of relief. “I will call Max and ask him to come here. We’ll see what has happened.”

-

After running up those five flights of stairs, Ash is out of breath. He’s swaying a little and probably looks as horrible as he feels, but he couldn’t just hole himself up in his apartment shivering like a rag doll in the rain. That part of him who desperately wanted to see Eiji led him all the way to Ibe’s apartment.

When he lifts his hand to check to see if the door is open, a voice stops him.

“He got it from the drive,” Max says. There’s a tenseness— _clear_ —agitation in his tone that Ash knows is reserved for only serious situations.

But it’s not his voice that makes Ash’s stop, it’s his words. 

“He got it from the drive,” Max repeats. “Everything. Without even filtering it or cross-checking it with other sources or even _thinking_ about the repercussions of publishing the whole goddamn thing for the whole goddamn world to see. This is why I _hate_ working with blood-thirsty journalists like him, but he’s influential and-and _good_ at his job, so I… I don’t know, I thought—”

“Once he received it, of course, you had no control over how he was going to use it, Max,” Ibe says. “It is not your fault; you didn’t—”

Max lets out a forced breath of air. “I should have kept it with me.”

“I’m the one who wanted it there,” Eiji whispers, voice scratchy. “It’s not you. It’s me.” 

_“Eiji—”_

Their conversation blurs for a moment as Ash claps a hand over his mouth, squeezing his eyes shut. He has to lean over, sucking in air through his nose slowly in an effort to keep from being heard. _There? In the journalist’s possession? No._ Ash shakes his head. _That’s not the complete story._

“—you don’t understand what I _mean—”_

“I suggested it, Ei-chan,” Ibe interjects. “Max told me Ash does not easily trust adults. He warned me this work was not for you, but I still agreed to let you help us gain information from Ash.”

 _No, no, no, no, no. Please tell me that’s not true._ Ash is twisting the door handle now, heart squeezing painfully as he pushes the door open. His eyes are burning.

And he regrets opening the door because there are three pairs of eyes on him—three pairs of eyes from people he somehow was able to trust all this time. 

Eiji is staring back at him in wide-eyed horror as he drops the cup in his hands. 

It’s almost like in those cliché B-rated movies where the director seems to think that capturing every little thing in slow-motion makes the suspense even heavier. And, fuck, it actually kind of works, watching the cup hit the side of the coffee table before bouncing off the rug and rolling onto the wooden floor, hot tea spilling everywhere. 

The stress is too much. 

Ash no longer wants to look at his face anymore.

_“Eiji, if… if I stop running away from you, will you stop running away from me?”_

But he’s running again. He’s running _away,_ because he doesn’t want to face the fact that the person who he thought he could stay with forever is only here temporarily. That he’s so in _love_ that the shock of not having it reciprocated at all is more painful than his parents leaving or his brother committing suicide. It’s even more painful than witnessing what Golzine did with the twins. What he’s done with so many more children, and—through the hot tears, Ash can feel himself smile ruefully—maybe he deserves all this for keeping quiet about the whole thing for so long. 

He told himself he’d find the right time and the right way to send Golzine to hell, but maybe his unconscious is just as selfish and cowardly as the worst scumbags on earth. 

_”Ash!”_

_He’s_ calling his name but Ash is so far ahead that it’s faint enough to be a delusion from the wind. And when he stops in between two buildings, the world swimming before him in dark colors, he doesn’t even notice the presence beside him. 

“Hey, Aslan.” A man with blond hair swept off his face leans forward, a smile stretching across his face. “Fancy seeing you here.” 

“Fuck—” Ash tries throwing a punch, but he can’t see that clearly and his soul is a mess. _”—off.”_

“Whoa, there.” Arthur catches his fist before slamming a knee into Ash’s abdomen. 

The bile that had been making Ash nauseous all this time finally comes out as he falls over, hands slamming against the asphalt ground. He actually feels better once it’s out, and he laughs, wiping the sleeve of his jacket across his mouth. His palms throb, blood welling from the shallow abrasions. 

“Pick him up.” 

Two of Golzine’s men haul him up to his feet, shoving him inside a black car before swinging the door shut. 

The laughter is still fresh on Ash’s lips, and it bubbles up, filling the emptiness of the car. 

“What?” Arthur slides into the passenger’s side as the car starts. “Are you laughing because you’re happy? You have someone to save you?” 

“Fuck _no.”_ The smile on his face is so wide it aches, but the tears are still coming down. 

His laughter dies.

“I can’t be saved.”

-

Sing feels stupid.

Beyond stupid.

Extremely, utterly, _incredibly_ stupid. 

And though he’s seething, smoke about to come out of his ears, the thing that bothers him the most is that it hurts. His heart actually has the capacity to hurt after seeing what had happened all over the news. Maybe the sensationalist headlines are playing into his emotions a little too much, but he knows everything he feels is concrete. It’s there, and there’s no way he’s just going to let it stay there without first doing something about it.

Hardly even caring about the Yut-Lung’s neighbors who would have to listen to the whole thing, Sing flings the door open, letting it slam shut behind him. 

Yut-Lung is on the couch—not laying in his bed—actually dressed in proper clothes for once, and Sing doesn’t know whether he should be even angrier that he doesn’t look the least bit fazed by what he did or shocked by how well someone lazy can clean up. His brain chooses the former.

“Do you… not have class today?”

Scoffing, Sing glances away for a moment, hands balling into fists, arms rigid on either side of his body. “Do I not have class today? Are you _seriously_ going to fake being innocent?”

Sing knows he’s not one to do that—after nearly two months of being a little more than acquaintances with him, it’s clear Yut-Lung says the truth more than he lies. If anything, he only lies to himself.

Crossing one leg over the other, Yut-Lung leans back into the sofa, sighing. 

This only feeds to the fire already burning in Sing.

“I’m honestly surprised you didn’t catch on to this until now,” he says, fingers combing his dark hair over his shoulder. “You said I was a wingless snake the moment you met me. I never denied that claim.”

Letting out a breath through his nose, Sing clenches his jaw, trying _hard_ not to yell. He doesn’t like arguments. He doesn’t want to even _feel_ close to screaming at someone, but Yut-Lung isn’t exactly helping with this case. 

His gaze is so steady, locked with Sing’s. And Sing wants it to waver for once—to let that self-preserving confidence melt away to show the core of Yut-Lung’s insecurities. He might not know Sing’s most inner qualities, but Sing understands this to an almost perfect state. Their pasts are intertwined, though only Sing has knowledge on that.

“I asked you yesterday if there was anything else I needed to know besides Ash’s relationship with the Japanese boy. You could’ve brought it up, maybe convinced me not to give the drive to that journalist,” Yut-Lung continues. “You hinted on it, but you pulled back. You didn’t step forth with that information.”

Oh my god. _Oh my god._

“Yue, I thought you were smarter than that. Making assumptions as to what I was going to say?” A small laugh erupts from Sing’s throat. “You thought I was just going to _hand_ over Ash’s head on a silver platter, smile, and, oh, I don’t know, prostrate myself in front of your holy presence? Are you seriously kidding me?” 

“Then _what?”_ The emotion finally seeps into his words. It’s edged with slight annoyance, the fatigue of keeping his calm aura showing in that ragged last syllable. “What were you going to say?”

“That I like you.” The words fall out of Sing’s mouth before he can think about it. “That despite the fact that you played a huge part in killing the younger part of me, I still— _somehow_ —have feelings for you.”

Yue-Lung blinks. Then he ducks down, locks of thick hair falling into his face like a waterfall. But Sing catches the confusion across his features—the half-lipped smile. An almost mocking one. 

The beat of his heart strains against the heavily-laden pain. It’s rough against his sternum, thumping hard like it’s about to burst out and lie spasming like a fish out of water. And part of Sing actually thinks it’s better if that happened. So he doesn’t have to deal with what’s about to unfold.

“Feelings for me?” Yut-Lung repeats. “You clearly don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“‘Cause of my age?” Stepping forward, Sing let’s his nails dig into the palms of his hands. “‘Cause I’m too _young?”_

“Because this thing called ‘love’ people always romanticize doesn’t fucking _exist,”_ Yut-Lung hisses.

“Oh, so now you’re going to devalue my feelings ‘cause you had a bad run-in with some old guy who was affiliated with my dad.”

Yut-Lung whips his head up, not bothering to cover how startled he is. How he didn’t think Sing would know about his certain forbidden activities with a member of what was left of the former Chinese mafia. 

“The difference here is that I’m not your naïve fourteen-year-old self who’s trying to seek comfort in the arms of some dude who _obviously_ could care less about my misplaced feelings and more about my body. I’m not the one who came to the realization too late. _I’m_ not the one who knew I shouldn’t have gotten attached in the first place, grown fond of an older man who couldn’t take care of me the way I know how to care for myself.”

Shooting off the couch, Yut-Lung marches forward, stopping right in front of Sing. Sing hurt him bad and it hurts him too to do this, but it’s the truth Yut-Lung no doubt already understood eons ago. The only missing part is that he hasn’t come into terms with it yet. 

“Then, it’s the same with you, right?” Yut-Lung’s voice is trembling, but that doesn’t take away from the corrosive poison that comes out bitter and caustic from his mouth. 

Sing has to swallow first, but it doesn’t even really do anything. He can still hear his heart wildly palpitating in his chest. He can feel it at his temple, the pressure building like a drum starting its crescendo to a triple forte. “The difference, Yue, is that I actually _like_ you. You sought out comfort in a physical way that tricked your heart into thinking you loved that horrible person. If you really loved him, you’d try to take the time to get to know him. And if he loved you, he wouldn’t have taken advantage of you like that. He would’ve—“ The tension is still heavy in the air, heavy through Sing’s body. The anger is there too, but it’s because he’s gotten his heart mauled over that he’s livid. And that makes it hard for him to speak.

“He would’ve taken the time to understand you—not burn the smell of him smoking cigarettes the morning after into your brain.” Sing’s eyes temporarily flicker away, but they find Yut-Lung’s after that moment. They’re gritty and raw. “You didn’t even know what he _looked_ like.”

Yut-Lung is teetering on the edge. Sing can see the conflicting feelings flash over his face—the heavy confusion clouding what he once understood as the truth. “You don’t know—“

“Yeah, I do.” _And that’s the part to breaks my heart and rips my pride and soul to pieces._ “The information your brothers gave you is filtered. They weren’t punishing _you_ when they made you kill the guy you were seeing. They were punishing my _dad.”_ Sing’s voice gives away a little, cracking, because as much as thinking about his dad emotionally pains him, he can feel his heart ache too. 

He doesn’t even get the luxury of sharp blade to heart; it’s all blunt, the overused, rusty blade ripping haphazardly through that muscle, causing more pain than a simple clean cut.

“When I first came here, I never planned on going along with whatever you said. I came here knowing who you are, knowing exactly what happened, thinking that if I could get closer to you, I’d learn something that would make you useless to the Lees—let you feel exactly what happened when my dad was tossed away like that.” Sing looks down, vision wavering. His teeth sink into his bottom lip, the pain it brings hardly noticeable. “But I-I _couldn’t_ do it in the end. From day one, I gave up ‘cause I’m just not like the people who turn heaven into hell just to get the revenge I think I want.

“Your brothers found out about you sleeping with that guy, and my dad was the one who got caught up in it because of me. ‘Cause I told him I saw you going into the apartment. I told him one of his men was doing shady things, but by the time he got there, that same guy who used you was gone. Your brothers already killed him, then set my dad up as a surrogate victim for you to murder. They caught me and held me hostage to get my mom. I-I had to watch _everything_ they did to her. And as if—“ Sing bites down on his bottom lip, the backs of his eyes burning, throat contracting. “As _if_ that wasn’t enough, they went ahead and made their thoughts visible.” 

Turning around, he lifts up the back of his sweatshirt, baring the Chinese characters for “traitor” carved deep into his flesh. The planes of his once-smooth skin are puckered and jagged around the wounds. They’ve healed over a few times now, but the thick white, uneven lines are still there, pulling at his skin unnaturally. The sight haunts him the way his parent’s bodies do; a symbol of the Lees’ displeasure of the way Sing’s dad had handled his men—especially with the one Yut-Lung was seeing. 

They blamed Yut-Lung’s promiscuous meetings on his dad, argued that his dad’s lack of strictness and authoritarian rule led to those events. _”Your father was a friend when he should’ve been a dictator. The consequences of his actions hurt our youngest, so now we will do the same unto you.”_

Like the cared even a drop for Yut-Lung. His brothers are blood-thirsty, homophobic, chauvinistic, sick, and completely deranged _monsters._

It didn’t mean Yut-Lung could pull Ash down with his brothers, though. It didn’t mean he could use the information on the flash drive for his own personal vendetta, never mind anyone who got caught up in it. 

Revenge doesn’t get you anywhere. It just screws up the lives of even more people.

Sing lets his sweatshirt fall back down, and twists around, eyes red-rimmed from holding back from straight-up bawling, mouth set into a tight, trembling line. Yut-Lung’s face is as white as a sheet, gaze directed elsewhere. “Back then, I gave up too much too easily, and even now, I guess I haven’t changed at all.”

His heart hurts. His entire body hurts like hell. “Yesterday, you said you didn’t want to see me again. Today’s an exception, but I guess you always have it your way in the end. Bye, Yue.”

When he makes his way to the door, the numbness never hits. There’s no calm after the storm—no breather or moment of silence. 

It’s raging inside, hard and heavy.

He wipes the sleeve of his sweatshirt over his burning eyes and runny nose, sniffling as he runs down six flights of stairs and into the frigid air outside. It knocks right into him, the cold against the heat of his body. Even though he’s expecting to be frozen to the core, he’s still hot inside, heart pounding so fast he has to crouch down for a moment to catch his breath. 

_God, I can’t believe I actually_ fell _for him._

Sing understands well enough that most things are just incomprehensible. And that they’ll stay like that forever.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading. :')


	13. Chapter 13

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> That is love, to give away everything, to sacrifice everything, without the slightest desire to get anything in return.

“I mean, is he _okay?”_

Nadia chews on her bottom lip, twisting the white gold ring around her finger. 

Sighing, Shorter ducks his head in between his shoulders, arms braced against the granite countertop. Just when he thought everything was going to be okay and fall into place, the whole world decides to blow up again and screw with everyone. 

Sing was on a winning streak for not skipping class and somehow made some kind of good “friend” Shorter still doesn’t know about. Nadia finally told Charlie she wanted to stay with him forever. Even though Eiji was still floating back and forth, Ash was actually doing so much better than before—not neglecting his duties and making any one of them clean up after some of his careless messes. 

Shorter looks up at Nadia who looks even more concerned. 

Of course she’s worried. Of course _everyone_ is worried. 

After the news on Ash hit the headlines, it’s now the most trending thing on basically every single social networking site. He called Ibe to check in on Eiji, and apparently the boy is doing a lot better than he thought. But then there’s NK Agency to worry about and Sing who has locked himself up in his room after coming home having sobbed his eyes out somewhere else. 

Shorter was going to force his way in until he heard him crying even more, voice muffled against his comforter. 

“‘He’?” Shorter rakes his fingers through his hair, and when he glances down, there are dyed purple strands in his hand. Now his hair is falling out because of stress. He should probably stop re-bleaching and dying it so much when he can’t even take the time to wash and treat it properly. “Who do you mean? Ash, Eiji, or Sing? Or maybe Max or Blanca, Charlie too?” 

“Dear god.” Nadia stares at him. “Ignore what I said earlier. Are _you_ okay?” 

Shorter deposits his fallen hair into the trash can, forcing on a smile. “Yeah?” 

“You’re lying.” 

He slams the trash can closed, palms slamming against the counter. “I’m gonna _murder_ whoever made Sing cry.”

“Oh, okay.” The surprise is clear in Nadia’s voice. “But just saying, knowing him, that’s probably only going to hurt him more.”

“Believe me when I say I _want_ to even though I know I can’t.”

“Like what happened two years ago?”

Nadia doesn’t wait to mention that same topic—the “forbidden” one Shorter has already told her countless times not to bring up. He knows she has a right to know, but at the same time, he doesn’t want to tell her since it’s still too dangerous. Too dangerous _and_ sensitive. 

Sighing, he walks back, facing her. Her usual cool expression is a little more transparent today, brows just slightly drawn together, lips pressed a millimeter tighter. “I promise I’ll tell you once I’m sure everything is alright.”

“No—it’s just—” She stops for a moment, looking away. “I’m always reminded of how I wasn’t here when it all blew over. You had to take care of everything even though I’m the older one and should’ve carried the weight of it all. _Obviously,_ I’m frustrated and confused about it all too, but I get it. I have to be patient. For mom to come back, for you, and for whatever else is happening. I guess…” Fidgeting with her ring, Nadia raises her eyes to meet Shorter’s. “...I just don’t want every family I’m in to be in pieces, you know?” 

She’s referring to the one she wants to make with Charlie—his parents who are still unwilling to accept her and the uncertainty of what could come in the future. It’s a completely valid concern, but Shorter doesn’t want her dwelling on all the negatives. 

To him, this is a good thing. 

It’s _supposed_ to be a good thing. 

“I don’t like to think of everything as physical,” he says. “Even if we’ve physically apart by death or ocean, it doesn’t mean our bonds have dissolved. And that thing with family being based on blood and biology? To me, that’s bull. As long as you have close ties to them, isn’t that what counts?” 

Nadia stares at him for a long time. Then, the corners of her lips curl up. “That’s so cheesy, Shorter.” 

”Hey, I tried.” 

“And such a romanticist,” she continues. “Like one of those people who can sit outside in the dark and talk about feelings without actually getting embarrassed. How have you never been in a relationship before when you’re almost twenty-two?” 

“Never really thought about it.” 

“What? You’re surrounded by people all day and you’ve _never_ looked at someone and thought: _’Hey, this person is pretty cute’_?”

Shorter has to think hard, racking his brain for any spark of some kind of memory of doing that, but no one comes to mind. “Well, I’ve had people ask me if I was seeing anyone.”

“And you _didn’t_ tell me?” 

“But I said I was too busy to take care of anyone else.” 

“Oh my god.” Nadia runs her fingers through her short locks. “I mean, even _you_ need someone who’s willing to take care of you too, right?” 

“That would feel weird.” Rounding the edge of the counter, Shorter starts making his way for the stairs. “I’m gonna go check on Sing, see if he wants to eat something.”

Nadia doesn’t argue further with him. She knows he’s pretty set on his decisions once he’s made them and won’t budge. 

Maybe having a partner would shift some of the stress off of Shorter’s shoulders, maybe give him someone he could share more intimate feelings and moments with, but his need for that kind of relationship has never once come up. 

As far as he knows, he’ll just remain as he is because that is what makes him the happiest. 

Stressed as _hell,_ but happy, nonetheless.

-

Blanca isn’t one to scramble around losing his wits over anything—even if that something concerned people he cares about.

He lifts his left hand up from the water, light following the droplets that slide from his fingertips down his elbow and into the bath. 

There is no longer a circular imprint around his ring finger, the skin smooth across the whole length of it. Even when Natasha was no longer of this world, he still kept it on. He kept it on for a long time until _Monsieur_ started requesting his services. The ring hangs around his neck on a silver chain, resting against his heart. The pair is gone, along with Natasha’s body, but sometimes Blanca likes to pretend that she’s still here until that dream fades away and he’s left alone.

He used to bed women who look like her, but for the past few months now, he’s been spending his nights alone. Something about the way the couldn’t quite fit perfectly in his arms. They’re all excuses, of course, but its so easy to trick the mind that he doesn’t care if he falls into one of those traps once in a while. 

He lets his head fall back against the tub, resting against the sides. His thoughts have been far away, his eyes closed, but Blanca has noticed him standing on the other side of the door for a while now. 

“Would you like to join me, darling?” 

Yut-Lung opens the door, an unamused expression on his face. “If you already know I’m here, why don’t get your ass out of the bath and put on some clothes so we can talk?” 

Of all the people Blanca has met, Yut-Lung’s personality reminds him most of Natasha. Though Natasha didn’t act quite as spoiled as Yut-Lung even though Blanca wanted her to so he could pamper her even more. If Blanca also had a romantic preference for men, he probably would have spent a long time trying to woo him. 

“Suit yourself, but this is a ritual for me so I’d rather not listen to your demands,” Blanca says. “If I am about to go to war, I’d rather enjoy my last morning in peace.” 

Yut-Lung completely ignores his wish for silence, disappearing for a moment before dragging a chair from outside into the bathroom. He plops down onto it, crossing his legs before fixing his cold gaze on Blanca. “So I assume Golzine has already told you what happened?” 

“I expected _Monsieur_ to take Ash back, but I didn’t know he would come so soon.” 

Yut-Lung raises a brow. “You would’ve protected Ash?” 

“Darling, I’ve been protecting him for some years now,” Blanca corrects. “To tell you the truth, I would have rather had Ash listen to _Monsieur_ for a while longer before inheriting everything once he passes away, but the boy doesn’t look his part. He’s not a porcelain doll for display.”

“Have Ash continue running the whole business even when it means further exploitation of innocent young boys?”

Blanca blinks at Yut-Lung, slight shock masking his features before he breaks out in a grin. “Now, I’m hardly a saint, but I’m not exactly a _beast._ Once _Monsieur_ had changed his will, I would have taken the first opportunity to stage his death.” He tilts his head to one side. “I’m no artist nor someone with a flair for the dramatic, but I’m sure I could have painted the most flawless picture of suicide.” 

“And then you would’ve used a fraction of the billions you have to save the children?” 

“I would have gifted Ash with ample condolence money before taking off for the Carribean. Russia and New York are too cold for my tastes.” 

“To escape?” There’s a touch of surprise in Yut-Lung’s voice. “You always struck me as the type of man who wants to settle.” He pauses. “Well, undeniably you once _did,_ but it’s easy for a devoted romantic like you to fall in love once someone catches your eye.”

Blanca holds eye-contact for several moments, gaze never wavering. “Here I thought you were convinced love is dead. Who stole your heart, darling?”

Shifting his eyes away, Yut-Lung clasps his hands tightly together in his lap. He’s clearly uncomfortable, being put in the spotlight for something he doesn’t like to talk about. “... someone.”

“Sounds like you were rejected. Or…” Blanca watches his face for cues, catching the tiny movement of Yut-Lung’s lips pressing just slightly together, his features tending for a split-second. “...rather, _you_ were the one who rejected him.” He taps a finger against the tub. “Surprising.”

“Surprising because I came to… slightly _enjoy_ someone’s presence or because they actually had feelings for me?”

“Because you usually give in to pleasure, don’t you?” Blanca says. “You’re not the type of person to restrain yourself. Whatever you want is what you get, no matter the other party’s opinion. But the fact that you’re not seeking instant gratification may mean that you care for that person past a purely romantic level. They would run into multiple problems by being with you, won’t they?”

Silence settles between them, but Yut-Lung’s quiet voice stirs it before it lays on thickly. “Do you really think I thought that far? The reason why I couldn’t accept him is because I couldn’t wrap my head around the fact that he _did_ like me. Who the fuck actually _wants_ me for my _heart?”_

“Goodness, darling, we already talked about this.”

“You’re not my therapist, Blanca,” Yut-Lung mutters. “And I’ve already told you before that I don’t like pet names.”

“You would if you were my lover.”

“Shut up; you’re straight.”

“Your loss, _darling.”_ Emerging from the bath, Blanca dries himself off before tugging on a white robe. His hair is still dripping wet though, the strands bleeding droplets over his shoulders and causing the fabric to dampen. “You came here because you know where Ash is.” It’s not so much as a question than a statement.

“Golzine’s manor and his buildings of operation were compromised. Even my brothers have practically nowhere to hide. There’s likely one place he’d be at.”

“And that is…?”

“The place where my father used to keep my mother and me.”

Blanca stops for a moment. “Why would your brothers choose a place like that to hold _Monsieur_ and Ash?”

“It’s far from where most people would think to put a residence and cushy enough for needy and high-maintenance people.” Yut-Lung crosses his arms together. “Besides, my brothers think I’m incapable of doing too much damage. They probably think I have hardly any recollection of where I used to liven, given the fact that I was only six when they decided that I wasn’t allowed to live a peaceful life with my mother once my father died.”

“Hm. I’m curious why they chose not to take you with them.”

Rolling his eyes, Yut-Lung scoffs. “Well, it could be because they’re cowards and don’t want to stay in the main house, but the reality is that they decided I was unneeded for their future plans. To maintain the relationship between Golzine and them—to maintain something that gave them ultimate status and money—is more important, of course. That means assisting Golzine with some kind of a safe house rather than wasting time to deal with me.” He threads his fingers into his hair, combing them back.

Blanca realized a long time ago that Yut-Lung doesn’t do this sort of thing because he particularly cares about his appearance but because he feels uncomfortable and wants to direct his attention elsewhere instead of the person in front of him. 

“No, I believe it’s because they know you’re the one who leaked the information,” Blanca replies, gaze fixed on Yut-Lung.

He doesn’t say anything. 

“What? Do you regret it?” Obviously, Blanca _knows_ he doesn’t; what he wants is a strong reaction—one that’s not heavily masked by his typically well-thought-out answers.

“I don’t.” 

Blanca’s brows shoot up. Well, _this_ sort of tamed response wasn’t one he expected at all. The Yut-Lung he’s known for years would’ve jumped at the opportunity to denounce his brothers in the most vehement manner possible. But, now, he says everything in such a muted, melancholy way. 

“Then why does the expression on your face say otherwise?”

Pressing his lips together, Yut-Lund stands abruptly, the chair clattering as it lifts and falls back onto the tiled floor. 

But before he can leave, Blanca just barely grazes his shoulder with his hand, feeling the tremors underneath the tense line of his back. 

_What is it? That emotion someone has when they care deeply for someone, but not exactly in a completely passionate way?_

Yut-Lung twists around just as suddenly as he stood up, a sheen across his eyes, brows coming together. 

Blinking, Blanca stares at him.

_No, not emotional attachment either, per se, but—_

“Will you lend me your body?”

It takes a second for Blanca to respond. “Darling, you know that I—“

“Not for _sex_ —I just—“ he breaks off, huffing, and looks away. “Never mind.”

This time when Blanca reaches for him, Yut-Lung easily slips away. “I don’t know why I even bother to ask since all I ever receive is your misplaced pity.” He slides his hand into his pocket, pulling out a slip of folded paper before placing it on the counter next to the sink. Black ink bleeds through the back of the thin paper. “The address to where they’re keeping Ash.”

Blanca watches as Yut-Lung disappears from the bathroom, the sound of the front door shutting behind him echoing through the empty apartment. 

_Misplaced pity?_ Blanca isn’t going to deny that the first few times he was in the presence of Yut-Lung, he didn’t feel a shred of pity. It isn’t sympathy and hardly empathy he feels towards fragile beings like him, but rather a kind of emotion no one wants. 

Coming from the Blanca he is now compared to who he was back then before he met Natasha was a lot, however. Before, he wouldn’t think twice as a contract killer. It didn’t matter if his target was innocent or someone who was fighting for something just. As someone who was recruited into the darkest places of the Russian government, he moved as such. Felt as such. So dark and so black a place that every time he pulled the trigger and confirmed the kill, he felt nothing. A black hole that kept sucking in the souls of dead men and women into nothingness.

He didn’t believe in things like falling in love with someone or letting someone change him. Quite frankly, the meeting was something completely spontaneous—almost in the bad way where that one glimpse led him down a spiraling staircase into a mess of blood and bullets.

What would he do to have her back by his side? Everything.

But the sad thing about reality is that death takes away so swiftly while life is so excruciatingly lived.

He pads over to the piece of paper, fingers pressing against both sides to keep it open, the words that are written there in curling handwriting. The same address he’s already been sent through a text. The one that told him to trigger Ash into leaving his apartment. It all came as a surprise alright, but Blanca already knew this was going to happen—where Golzine is taking Ash. What he plans to do.

He sighs, leaving the bathroom to open up his wardrobe.

All the while, the same train of thought keeps circulating in his mind, over and over again.

The different kinds of love—how far someone has fallen. 

And he comes to the conclusion that it is not Yut-Lung’s _heart_ that boy stole, but his soul.

-

Ash finds it hard to breathe.

Not because of the previous hit Arthur has him, but because he doesn’t want to go back. He doesn’t know how much self-control he has in him to sit back and let Golzine do whatever he wants to do. 

He is handled pretty roughly, but Ash doesn’t expect anything different. In fact, he thought they would’ve taken turns making that long car ride hell for him, but the whole entire time was so quiet that it almost drove Ash himself crazy. The fact that they didn’t put a blindfold on him or knock him out tells him that wherever they’re taking him probably isn’t going to be very permanent. 

If Golzine takes him out of the country, he doesn’t know if he’ll ever see Eiji again. 

The thought of it comes down heavy on him. 

The fact that he’s still thinking about him despite the possibility that he may have just been betrayed by the one person he practically gave himself away to kind of hurts. 

Ash has always been hurting—for a long time now, but this one is different. 

They come to an abrupt stop after driving for a few hours, and all Ash can see are trees. He’s been seeing trees for the last hour or so, but the change in landscape is a blow in the face. The cities he’s familiar with his now replaced by thousands and thousands of thick foliage on all sides. 

A manor sits in a large clearing, and Ash can just barely make out a small, winding path that leads up to it. The trees are too thick to really see anything else. 

“You gonna get up or do I have to ask these guys to drag you out?” 

Wordlessly, Ash manually unlocks the door before slipping out and promptly makes his way up to the manor. Arthur doesn’t protest, but that’s only because he wants to stay civil so close to his boss. If not for Golzine, he wouldn’t be calling Ash “Aslan” or producing formal speech whenever they’re all in the same room.

In fact, he’s probably still seething over the fact that Golzine wants Ash back after all these years. He was the one next in line to inheriting Golzine’s organization, and now that Ash is back, there’s no way he can touch the throne. 

Not that Ash wanted anything to do with it in particular. 

The closer he is to the manor, the more he realizes that it’s definitely not one of Golzine’s at all. But the people stationed outside and doing rounds are.

They hold up their guns right when they spot Ash, but a figure at the door holds his hand up. It’s none other but Golzine himself. 

His beady eyes settle on Ash, no doubt engulfed by anger, but his voice is calm and composed. “Where is Arthur? I sent him to escort you here.”

Ash can’t even be bothered to smother his laugh. _”’Escort’?_ Are you fucking kidding me?”

“Language, Aslan.” There’s that same steely edge to his tone that used to scare Ash when he was eight. 

“Sorry, but I don’t talk with a filter. You of all people should know that.” 

Golzine doesn’t comment further on his choice of words. In fact, he doesn’t say anything at all as he turns and retreats into the manor, shadows swallowing him whole.

While Ash doesn’t want to follow him in, he also doesn’t want to wait for Arthur and the other two men to catch up with him. And, he prefers not to stand outside past while the rest of Golzine’s men stare back at him with the ends of their rifles pointed at his body.

Clenching his teeth and forcing air out through his nose, Ash makes his way up the stairs and past the threshold of the door. 

The smell is what gets to him first. 

The strong scent of jasmine and blood mingling together so strongly that it immediately makes him sick to his stomach even when he’s already used to those kinds of smells.

He fights the urge to bolt back outside, fingers tightening against his palms and pressing crescents into his flesh. 

Ash doesn’t even have to do much to figure out whose blood it is. When he passes through the heavily decorated front hall, the chandelier above him casting artificial light across the connecting foyer and open drawing-room, he sees heads lolled back against couches, eyes still open, the whites showing. 

They’re Yut-Lung’s older brothers, all three sitting as if arranged across a single couch. A cozy picture if only they weren’t dead and paling, fresh blood dripping from the curved wood of the furniture and pooling onto the floor. They’re covered in holes. Golzine must have ordered a whole magazine emptied into each of them without a care for the mess he was going to make. 

“Quite fitting, isn’t it?” Ash notices his presence first before Golzine’s fingers tighten against both his shoulders as he stands behind him. “The portrait isn’t complete without all the brothers together.”

Lifting his eyes from the execution in front of him, Ash sees the painted portrait of Yut-Lung, his mother, and his father on either side of him. They’re not smiling, but don’t seem particularly sad either. It’s an expressionless piece that makes him wonder if the portrait even holds anything close to fondness. 

Yut-Lung would probably agree that hardly anything he’s experienced in life was close to actual happiness. Ash is beginning to wonder if the illusion he held with Eiji is something akin to what Yut-Lung has always felt. 

“His father was heavily influenced by English culture while living in Hong Kong where he met his last wife,” Golzine says, letting Ash go. The place where he touched him is cold. “It is no wonder this home is so reflective of the houses the gentry of the _vieux riche._ When his brothers offered him to me once they did away with his mother, I was tempted to take him. Only, he doesn’t have the blond hair and green eyes I fancy.” 

The last statement makes Ash’s blood curl. He’s frustrated and hurt, the pent-up emotions still at the surface but unable to budge. “Please, dear _god,_ tell me you didn’t bring me here to talk about the Lees’ history and talk about your disgusting preferences.” 

There’s a tick in Golzine’s jaw, but he doesn’t act out on it. “We’ll be leaving for France in a week. I’ll be introducing you as my adoptive son when we meet my colleagues there.” 

The words slip out of Ash’s mouth before he can catch them. He hasn’t ever stepped foot out of New York, and he doesn’t plan on doing that so soon. “No.”

“This is non-negotiable.”

When he shakes his head, refusing again as his fists shake, a hook pierces through his heart, the string taut, anchoring him down to New York. “I don’t care if I have to pretend to be your adoptive son or if I have to parade myself around with a smile on my face. Hell, I don’t even _care_ if I have to prostitute myself. But I’m not—” He has to take in a breath of air. When he does, he looks down on the floor, heart squeezing. “I’m _not_ leaving here.”

“Why?”

“Because—”

Golzine interrupts. “Because of the boy you shot that perfume campaign with?” 

Ash stiffens.

“While you were off playing those uncouth jazz pieces that night, I had the pleasure of meeting him. Though I’ve heard he’s two years older than you, he looks rather young. If not for his height, he’d look like a child.” Golzine’s beady eyes connect with Ash’s. “I’m not wrong to assume you love him, am I?” 

“Don’t you _dare_ touch him.”

The corners of Golzine’s lips curl up. “As if there is anyone there to protect him.”

“Blanca knows—”

“Oh, yes, Blanca _knows_ alright,” Golzine says. He takes a step forward, the ice in thick winter sheets across his words. “About everything. He was the one who found you for me, who convinced your parents to abandon you. In fact, when your brother refused to leave with them, Blanca was the one who did away with him. To even _think_ that someone as intelligent as you would fall for something like _that_ —young as you were—told me that you’re just a bit easier to manipulate than other people. That those who love the deepest are worthy of being my pawns.”

It’s more of a shock than it should’ve been.

And it leaves Ash completely breathless in the worst way possible, a buzzing starting low in his ears and building up in pressure until his legs start to quiver, ready to give away. 

There are moments in which he prides himself on being resilient, but times like these remind him that he’s not the kind of person he wishes to be. He’s not the kind of strong-willed individual everyone paints him out to be. 

Because the world is warping before Ash’s eyes. All of this is slowly melting away, more and more of it becoming incomprehensible. He wants to tell himself that it’s the stress that getting to him—the stress and the heartbreak and everything else in between, but he can’t even _think_ straight right now. 

“Of course, Blanca probably has already told you before, given the fact that he is affectionate towards rebellious, delicate-looking people like you,” Golzine continues. “I didn’t cut you loose those five years ago; I only loosened my leash just enough for you to calm down a bit. He was going to send you back to me once you turned twenty, but, of course, since that information you so meticulously compiled got released to the public, so I had no choice but to quicken the time frame.” 

The tension in Ash’s body gives away. His hands fall slack. 

“What the fuck.” He mutters. He’s recollecting just enough of himself to understand everything, and once it becomes clear enough, the whole thing sounds so ridiculous. Ash wants to laugh, but he can’t. He feels almost soulless, the emotion just barely holding in his tone. _”What the fuck?_ You seriously screwed up my whole family just so you could have me to yourself? Are you fucking— His voice strains against the words. He’s falling in and out of rage and pain and confusion all at once. “— _kidding_ me?”

“I told you none of this is negotiable, Aslan. You are an investment I’ve spent a lot of my time and money on, and I’m willing to spend whatever it takes for you to finally understand that you have nowhere else to go to and no one else to help you but me.”

 _“Fucking psycho,”_ Ash mumbles, voice fracturing. “I can’t _believe—”_

“Aslan.”

Golzine’s eyes are fixed on him as he lifts his hand and curls it around Ash’s chin, forcing him to stare right back. When his thumb drags across Ash’s cheek, Ash fights the urge to flinch. 

“Do you love the boy or not?”

He feels completely stripped and raw, all of a sudden.

It’s a feeling that makes him want to bundle himself up and hide in the corner of a room. A feeling that he hasn’t felt for a long, long time.

Golzine watches him intently. “Do you love him?”

Ash has learned countless times that to hurt your enemy, you have to take away someone or something they care about and value. For Blanca, that was Natasha, and for him, it was his brother. Now, Golzine is prying Eiji and everyone else in New York away from him.

Most times, people value what is irreplaceable, and Ash has always thought Golzine’s business was the sole thing he could never part with. But now that it’s gone, he’s beginning to wonder if its the future that worries Golzine the most—the future that he wants to pave under his legacy for a purely self-conceited and narcissistic purpose. And if that’s the case, maybe in order to make him fall the hardest, Ash has to do away with perhaps the sole human who Golzine has hand-picked and polished to inherit his name. 

Maybe Ash has to disappear to get rid of Golzine once and for all.

“Fine.” Ash can hardly hear himself, voice unsteady. Despite really being close to tears, his mind is already off to somewhere else, the plan running loose, scrawling itself against Ash’s skull. “I’ll do what you want. We can leave; I—” He lets out a puff of air. It’s like his last breath. “—don’t care anymore.”

Golzine doesn’t look surprised at Ash’s swift change of mind. Clearly, because he always thinks he’s one step ahead, ready for the kinds of things Ash will pull. But Ash doubts he knows what he’ll find when his flight to France arrives. 

He grins, letting Ash go. 

Crumbling, Ash presses his trembling lips together, fingers curling into the wood. Tears dot his hands, running down the pale skin and onto the floor. His heart is heavy, but he feels a little freer now that he’s acknowledged what he needs to do.

_“C’est cela l’amour, tout donner, tout sacrifier sans espoir de retour.”_

That is love, to give away everything, to sacrifice everything, without the slightest desire to get anything in return.

-

It’s clear Ibe didn’t want to leave Eiji in the apartment all by himself—even if only for a couple of hours, but he didn’t really have much of a choice. With Blanca no showing up at the agency, Max had to step in himself, dragging Ibe over as well so they could finish deadlines.

Work doesn’t stop just because the top three agencies are caught up in some kind of scandal, after all. At least, not for Blanca’s. If anything, Ash was painted as a victim by the media—a boy who was sworn to secrecy by fear. Or something like that.

And while Eiji wants to believe everything will be alright, he doubts it is. He’d chased after Ash, but by the time he emerged from the other side of the building, no one was on the street anymore.

He’s surprised he’s actually relatively calm right now. If anything, Eiji feels _too_ calm despite the mayhem he’s in.

Eiji bites his bottom lip, fingers fighting with the handle of his mug. Well, it wasn’t that he misheard anything—just that while Eiji has been here, he’s almost forgotten the fact that Max wanted him closer to Ash just so he could get the information Ash has in his possession. In any case, Eiji didn’t want to sit here and do nothing. All he does is cage himself in Ibe’s apartment staring at the wall opposite to his bed, looking at random things on his phone, or clicking through the countless pictures Ibe has taken these past two months. 

If there was one thing he’s learned in his past—it’s not to let misunderstandings settle into some kind of sour relationship. 

He doesn’t bother tugging on a sweatshirt or sweater since the sun is already blazing outside, a stark contrast between the chilly morning and hot afternoon. It was already late May, of course, but the change in weather hasn’t really been on Eiji’s mind. Until he stepped outside and immediately felt the heat bearing down on him on all sides. An uncomfortable heat.

The ride to Ash’s apartment is a rather quiet one, and Eiji appreciates the fact that the driver doesn’t really try to make conversation. Trying to hold one after the mess he was part of in the morning probably wouldn’t really do anything. In fact, he had a feeling that he’d probably drift off in thought anyway until the taxi slowed to a stop at its destination. 

The apartment complex is still as modern as he remembers, quite different from the one Ibe had rented for a year. The reinforced glass paneling is black from the outside, though Eiji knows its perfectly clear when looking out from inside. 

The ride up on the elevator is just as quiet as the car ride, but instead of keeping his mind at peace, Eiji can feel the nervousness get to him, making his fingers shake when he doesn’t lace them tightly together. Of course, Eiji isn’t necessarily one for confrontation, but that is mainly because he’s never really stirred up anything as big as the confusion between him and Ash. 

But there are first times for everything, and maybe mending the whole thing and really sitting down for a long talk will prevent everything from falling apart even more. That is, if Ash understands that Eiji’s motive for getting close to him has never truly been just to get information. 

Eiji knocks twice on Ash’s door, waiting a minute in between. When no one answers, he knocks again, then tries the door handle, which opens. He peeks in but sees no one in the studio. 

“Ash?” 

His steps are tentative, but they feel heavy when they make it slowly to the curtain that separates the rest of the space from Ash’s bedroom—a makeshift wall for the lack of privacy. 

But, there’s no one on the bed and with the bathroom door open, it’s clear that there isn’t anyone in there either. The bedding is undone, thrown back messily, a corner of the duvet dragging on the floor. 

His skin pricks, hairs standing on edge. The feeling of someone close who is about to touch him. Eiji whips around suddenly, a small gasp tearing from his lungs as he sees a man with dark hair and dark eyes so unlike Ash’s and the curve of a sharp blade slicing through the air so fast his muscles tense up and his eyes squeeze shut. 

Heart jumping up into his throat and ears ringing, he barely has time to catch himself, but the feeling of solid pressure against his back catching him. Eiji hears a loud thump against the wooden floorboards. 

“You’re bleeding.” A finger grazes his cheek to see how bad it is, but by the slight stinging, Eiji doesn’t think it could be too bad. Especially since he hardly felt it.

He grimaces slightly, opening his eyes to see Blanca looking down worriedly at him. “I-It’s fine.” When his eyes slide over to the body on the floor, blood pooling in dark crimson, his breath catches and he quickly looks away. 

“I had a feeling you would come here,” Blanca says, hand still braced against Eiji’s back as he holds him snug against his own body. “Though one second late and Ash would murder me. Or try, at least.”

When Eiji tries to talk, the words won’t come out. He licks his lips, trying again, “W-where? Where’s Ash?” 

“Someplace far, though I don’t plan on letting Golzine have him.” 

_Golzine._ The beat of Eiji’s heart quickens. 

Ushering him down the stairs, Blanca leads him into a black car. “I don’t think _Monsieur_ would have sent more than one man here, but we should hurry nonetheless.” 

“To where?”

“To Ash, of course.”

“I need to—” Eiji feels around for his phone, but doesn’t find it anywhere in his pockets. _I need to let Ibe-san know._

“I’ll contact him later; don’t worry.”

“But—“

Pulling out a strip of gauze and bandage, Blanca holds Eiji’s gaze in his. “Trust me.” 

There’s something in his eyes that makes Eiji freeze. 

And when he lifts the bandage up to Eiji’s cheek, stray fingers brushing against his neck, Eiji barely notices the prick of something through his flesh before the darkness edges in on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :’)
> 
> (Ugh, but on another note, November has got me so tired. December is going to throughly murder me. If any of you have to register for classes you know my pain when the class you wanna take is full (fucking hierarchy sometimes I wish I applied for honors just so I can sign up for classes first when registration opens). It always happens to me and then I’m stuck with some other class I don’t wanna take. Or, if you have conflicts in your schedule (like I always fucking do), you have to settle for the bad professor. Legit I have the worst luck you all, and I know life is life and I shouldn’t complain but still ugh... it just means I have to work extra hard to get the grade I want in these classes cause those profs sure as hell aren’t gonna teach well... or even if I absolutely abhor the class, I just have to somehow get through it... it’ll (hopefully) be alright...)


	14. Chapter 14

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yut-Lung feels dirty, and all he wants to do is to get rid of that feeling.

He doesn’t even need the evidence to know that something is wrong. 

Yut-Lung gives the taxi driver what he owes before skipping the elevator and going up by the stairs. He’s a little breathless by the time he makes it up to his floor, but it's better than getting jumped the moment the elevator doors open. 

What Yut-Lung needs is space. Ample space to move, not a metal box hanging by steel ropes where he’d be restricted in. 

The lock is broken, the door just a few millimeters open. Holding his breath. Yut-Lung slides the silver hairpin out of its half-bun and holds it flush against his wrist, his other free hand slowly pushing the door open. 

There are bodies on the floor, one right in front of the kitchen counter and another folded over the couch, a cascade of blood draining from the deep slit across his neck. It’s crimson, the color deepening as it soaks the cushions. And as much as Yut-Lung is used to seeing corpses and blood from the sick games his brothers sometimes played with unfortunate people, it still makes something curl in his stomach, his own throat burning uncomfortably. 

When he gets past the living area, Yut-Lung notices the bloody hand smeared across the counter, droplets curving around a trail of bodies leading into his room. Either his brothers really did want him dead or Golzine wanted him permanently shut up so he couldn’t tell anyone where he was, though he already passed the information on to Blanca. 

The same red handprint is across the white wood of his bedroom door, and beyond that, Yut-Lung sees his chauffeur kneeling on the floor, both hands pressed against his side, the bundle of blankets in between them nearly soaked through with blood. 

_Fuck._

Yut-Lung rushes to him, noticing how pale he already looked—a shade so unlike the usual olive of his skin. 

“There is one more—” the chauffeur hisses, biting off the last word. 

Yut-Lung feels the pain before he can twists away, biting down hard on his bottom lip when he feels the tip of the knife slice through his flesh. An unwise move but fast enough for him to catch the man off guard and flip the hairpin horizontal in his fist before burying it in the man’s neck. 

He feels sapped of energy when he lets go of the pin, taking an unsteady step back. The wound in his back probably really isn’t that bad, but he can definitely _feel_ it.

Then, he realizes that his chauffeur is still bleeding out next to his bed so he runs to grab a thick towel from the bathroom before coming back to wrap it around his chauffeur’s stomach, right over the massive wad of blankets. “I can’t fix this by myself,” Yut-Lung murmurs, fingers shaking. Blood is already seeping through, spotting the white towel red. 

Yut-Lung doesn’t even think before scrolling to the bottom of his contacts, pressing on a number he hasn’t called in years. 

When he picks up, he’s clearly confused, probably wondering why Yut-Lung is calling him. That is, if he didn’t already delete his contact off his phone. 

Yut-Lung’s voice catches at his throat. “Shorter, I need help.”

-

“Okay, so I didn’t think your idea of _‘help’_ was gonna mean bringing a half-dead guy back to life.” Shorter shoots Yut-Lung a look as he crouches down, shrugging off the bag strapped over his shoulder. “At least I’m prepared.”

Draining the rest of the wine in his glass, Yut-Lung grabs the open bottle to pour himself more. “What did you expect me to do? Explain every little detail on the phone and prevent you from coming as quickly as you could?” 

“Well, you could’ve given me some context,” Shorter says, ripping open a packet of sterilized needle and thread. “Maybe briefed me on what happened.”

“What other intention would I have to call you?” 

“Yue, I haven’t seen you in over a year, and I never planned on seeing you again, just to let you know.” 

It makes sense, of course. Or, at least, now it did. 

Shorter didn’t know who Yut-Lung was until he debuted as a model in his brothers’ agency. It’s almost _too_ vivid—just a summer ago when Shorter suddenly barged into the confidential place Yut-Lung was renting behind his brothers’ backs and almost buried a knife through his skull. 

The entire thing was so surprising that Yut-Lung just laid there in bed, eyes wide with the flat of the knife kissing his cheek for the next several minutes. He remembers seeing the smoldering anger in Shorter’s eyes like untamed fire—but also something akin to physical pain before Shorter promptly announced that they wouldn’t be seeing each other anymore and stormed out without as much as a short explanation.

But back then, Yut-Lung didn’t really have the energy to ask why. Quite frankly, he didn’t _want_ to know why. 

The kind of relationship he had with Shorter was the tender kind he’d never received from anyone before, so the fact that it didn’t last for more than three months further solidified the idea that such a thing like love did not exist. And that if it did, it was purely evanescent. 

Yut-Lung wonders what Shorter would do to him if he knew the one who broke his cousin’s heart was none other than Yut-Lung. 

That knife wouldn’t miss its target.

“Clearly, because I never gave you my full name nor told you my primary language is Cantonese. If I did, you wouldn’t have ever had anything to do with me, right?” 

Yut-Lung watches as Shorter ties off a knot before working on the next suture. His eyes are focused on the wound, never once looking up to meet Yut-Lung’s gaze. “I had my reasons,” he says softly. “I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you.” 

“Well, you should have.” Taking periodic sips of the wine doesn’t even do anything, and Yut-Lung ends up setting it back on the vanity. The deep bordeaux swirls around the glass, as dark as the red on Yut-Lung’s ledger. It’s odd how he doesn’t feel the guilt until now, but when it comes, it’s heavier than anything else he’s ever felt before. 

He bites his bottom lip, tightly crossing his arms over his chest as he leans across the wall. The movement sends spikes of pain down his back and through the nerves spidering across his shoulders, but it doesn’t compare to the sort of emotion destroying his heart. 

“You don’t need to know.” Finishing off the last stitch, Shorter wraps the chauffeur’s abdomen with a bandage. “Right.” He stands. “We should go since I’m sure you won’t be safe staying someplace that’s already been marked.”

When Yut-Lung doesn’t budge, Shorter finally looks up. His expression is neutral, despite what Yut-Lung finally knows what had happened in the past. He doesn’t understand how someone can seem so calm and collected the way Shorter can.

He’s obviously stressed in one way or another, the tension sitting in a line across his shoulders, transferring to the slight wrinkle between his brows, but how he isn’t acting upon it is beyond Yut-Lung. He can’t even begin to comprehend how even after the shit Shorter has gone through with him, he can still rush over to help someone who doesn’t deserve any of it.

Yut-Lung ducks his head down just enough that his hair slides from behind his shoulders and obscures his face in a dark curtain. “Fucking hell,” he mutters, so low he doubts anyone could hear it. But when that overwhelming feeling of self-hate and blame overrides everything else, the tiny fissures he once believed wouldn’t be going anymore crack wide open.

“You should have told me,” Yut-Lung repeats, voice quiet. The words tremble, and when he speaks again, his nails dig into his arms as he brings his eyes up to meet Shorter’s. “If you didn’t conceal the fact that I fucked up your family, then maybe I wouldn’t have gotten us in this goddamn _mess_ right now.” 

Yut-Lung can see the conflict in Shorter’s features; how he’s trying to wrap his mind around what he just heard. How he should interpret Yut-Lung’s words. 

“I’m not some kind of fragile being that you need to protect, Shorter,” he says, taking in a shaky breath of air. His throat constricts, and he has to swallow hard to continue. “You don’t get to decide what’s good for me and what’s not. The fact that I went on for so long without knowing exactly what happened hurts me more when I think about the kinds of terrible things I’ve already done. Perhaps I’m more insensitive than other people— _perhaps_ I’m selfish, but that doesn’t mean I don’t give a fuck about other people. You and everyone else might not understand, but I also have the capacity to care. I have a fucking _heart,_ for god’s sake.”

A thousand thoughts pass through Shorter’s features. “I never said—“

“Well, you may as well have said it,” Yut-Lung snaps, sniffling. His heart is throbbing and the wound in his back also throbs, but it doesn’t matter anymore because everything is just one fucking mess he doesn’t want to even acknowledge anymore. He waves a hand at his chauffeur. “Take him back to your place. You can teach him how to make cocktails or pour champagne towers; I don’t care. I’m leaving.”

“No.” Shorter isn’t forceful, per se—in fact, he’s the type of soft person to give in and let the issue slide, but this time he doesn’t let Yut-Lung go. “You’re like an emotional nuclear bomb. The moment you step outside this building, you’re gonna go off and do impulsive things you’ll probably regret in the morning.” 

“As if I don’t already regret enough of what I’ve done in life,” Yut-Lung responds bitterly, ignoring Shorter’s words and making his way to the front door. 

But before he can open it, an arm comes around him, pushing against the solid wood. Even when Yut-Lung pulls on the handle, the door won’t move a single centimeter. 

“How did you find out?” He’s so close that even Yut-Lung’s incurably cold body can recognize the heat. “About what happened to my family?” 

Yut-Lung’s fingers tighten around the door handle, knuckles blanching under the strain. “The hard way.” Sucking in his bottom lip, he curls his other hand into a fist, trying to suppress the tremors going through his body. When he lets out a breath of air, a part of his carefully-rendered image crumbles away. The fact that he sounds so pathetic in front of someone who he used to be close to takes away a massive piece of his pride away. 

“Okay.” Hand still flat against the door, Shorter gently coaxes Yut-Lung to turn around. “You don’t have to tell me anything, but I want you to come back to my place. Promise you’ll stay for at least one night.”

 _Where Sing is? Hell no._ But, of course, Yut-Lung doesn’t voice his thoughts. He can’t speak his mind. He can’t come clean because he’s done so much bad to the point that nothing warrants forgiveness anymore. 

So he yields and follows Shorter out to his car. He doesn’t even question how he has the strength to carry a grown man or if his chauffeur is going to be okay despite the damage to his body. But then again, Yut-Lung was never one to question these kinds of things. Once he’s gotten himself in a state like this, it is silence that he treats himself with. 

Being unable to express himself adequately enough with words, that was the kind of reaction he has always had.

They enter through the back of the bar, up the long flight of stairs where Shorter emerges at the opposite end of his penthouse. 

Despite the fact that it’s quiet, Yut-Lung still holds his breath, bowing his head down a little lower. He doesn’t know if Sing is here, but knowing what happened this morning, there was no way Sing had gone to school right after what Yut-Lung said and how he treated him. 

“No one else is here, if that’s what you’re worried about.” Placing the chauffeur down onto his bed, Shorter glances over at him. “And, I don’t know who this guy is, but if you’re worried, he’ll be fine.” 

“My driver,” Yut-Lung says. He has to force out the air that’s in his lungs before continuing. “I’m taking a shower.” 

“Go ahead.” Shorter gestures to the wardrobe. “You can wear whatever you want; I think some of Ash’s stuff is in there and will fit you better. If you don’t mind wearing his stuff, that is.” 

“I could care less about that right now.” 

Motioning to the kitchen, Shorter grabs the door handle, ready to step out. “I’m gonna make some food.”

“Whatever.” 

Once Shorter closes the door fully, Yut-Lung starts undressing, tossing the jacket he’d put over his bloody shirt on the ground before gingerly unbuttoning and shrugging his top off. The pain is still annoyingly present, and he wonders why it bothers him so much when he’s usually fine with it. Perhaps because it’s an actual cut into his skin, rather than bruising or red marks. 

Trying to ignore it, he lets the water adjust to a lukewarm temperature before stepping under it. When the droplets hit his wound, Yut-Lung hisses, fingers curling into the tile wall. 

But he tells himself to get over it, ignoring the way his back feels like it’s on fire as he works the shampoo into his hair and scrubbing his body as clean as he can. 

Yut-Lung feels dirty, and all he wants to do is to get rid of that feeling.

When he leaves the bathroom, his chauffeur is no longer on the bed. In fact, the only person in the room is Shorter sitting cross-legged on one side of the bed, a tray of bandages and medicine right next to him. He stares Yut-Lung down way harder than needed, patting the space in front of him. “Sit.” 

Pressing his lips together, Yut-Lung backs away defensively. “I don’t like people ordering me around.” 

A loud sigh enters the air. Shorter tries again, voice steely. “Please _sit,_ Yue.”

Yut-Lung complies, lowering himself down at the very edge before turning slightly around. “What do you want?” 

Shorter stares at him, the corner of his eye twitching. “For someone who legit almost burst into tears an hour ago to be like this… I’m not even gonna try and figure out how. So, you wanna scoot closer or am I dragging you over?” 

Begrudgingly, Yut-Lung sits nearer to Shorter, but the space between them is still enough for someone else to cross through. He hears Shorter come closer himself, the tray sliding softly over the sheets. 

“Show me your back.” 

“He told you, didn’t he.” It’s not even a question.

“Your driver whose name you don’t even know? Yeah.” 

Yut-Lung looks down at his lap. “It’s not as bad as his.” 

“Do you really think I’m the kind of guy who judges people based on how bad they’re hurt compared to others?” Shorter lets out a puff of air. “Sure, he’s hurt bad, but apparently he’s well enough to stand up and talk, at least. Even though he shouldn’t and I made sure he laid himself down the moment he opened his mouth. Besides…” He pauses for a moment. “Pain isn’t limited to the physical type.”

Hands gripping the front of his robe, Yut-Lung pulls it open just enough before letting it slide down his shoulders to his waist. His wet hair sticks to his back.

“Can I touch you?”

“Do what you want.” 

Shorter plaits Yut-Lung’s wet hair into a braid before moving it over his shoulder to leave his back bare. 

Yut-Lung doesn’t know what the cut looks like, but the fact that Shorter is so quiet for several moments doesn’t give him a good feeling about it.

“Why the heck would you move to the side when there’s a _knife_ in your back?” 

_Of course_ he can tell exactly what happened. “Clearly, if I hadn’t, I would have died.” 

“There are other ways—”

Yut-Lung scowls, even though Shorter can’t see him. “Do you think I’d know how to? Also, stop scolding me; I’m not your lover, your friend, or someone you need to be overly concerned about.”

“Well, at least it’s not as bad as I thought,” Shorter mutters. “Then again, maybe you already have a staph infection and I just don’t know yet.” 

“You worry too much.”

He laughs. “Everyone tells me I worry too much, and _believe me,_ I’m aware of it, but haven’t they ever thought about _why_ I’m so worried in the first place?”

Yut-Lung picks fluff off the bathrobe. It’s bunched around his waist, and the fabric would have pooled on the ground had he not hiked the hem up and folded it before tying it off. “Perhaps you should stop caring, then.” 

“Yeah; _very_ doable, Yue. Like I can just tell myself not to care and everything is suddenly fixed.” 

“You’d be surprised how easy it is to simply not give a fuck.” Craning his head around, Yut-Lung glances at Shorter. “Why aren’t you doing anything yet? Slather on some ointment and put the bandage on already.” 

“I’m trying to figure out the best way to do this. Aren’t you sensitive to this kind of pain?” 

“I should be f—” He bites off a curse, hissing.

“What?” When Yut-Lung glares at Shorter, he shrugs. “You were going to say you’d be okay.”

_“Fucking asshole.”_

“Okay, okay, I’m sorry. Just—” Turning Yut-Lung around, Shorter pulls him closer, maneuvering him in such a way that he was now resting almost flush against his chest, face pressed against his shoulder. 

There was something slightly suggestive about the whole position with Yut-Lung sitting in his lap, the robe riding up past his knees, but it felt very comfortable. This was the kind of thing he wanted from Blanca and was admittedly too embarrassed to clarify once Blanca had misunderstood. 

“Comfy?” 

Shifting forward, Yut-Lung breathes in, closing his eyes. It’s hard not to melt into someone when they’re holding you like this. 

There are, of course, different ways he’s been held—most of the times, roughly—but there is something about dialing back on the types of things he’d do with men with deviant tastes just to get rid of the kinds of debilitating thoughts in his head that is just as effective. Effective and healthy. “Yes.” 

“Alright. So I’m gonna be as gentle as I can.”

Yut-Lung feels slight stinging, but it isn’t as bad as the kind he felt earlier. He holds onto Shorter a little tighter, fingers curling into the thin cotton of his t-shirt.

“I never blamed you for what happened, by the way,” Shorter murmurs. “Yeah, I was angry and hurt and incredibly confused, but I never meant to break things off the way I did.”

Yut-Lung opens his eyes, but he doesn’t answer. 

“Even today, I was a jerk in the beginning. Hopefully, it didn’t get to you.”

His eyes fall close. “I deserved it. I stirred up this chaos, hurt countless people, and if they all wish to murder me, I won’t even try to preserve my life. They can have it.”

Shorter hasn’t acknowledged it yet, but now he does, the question hesitant on his lips. “You leaked the information?” 

“Yes.”

“Do you regret it?” 

The same question Blanca asked. 

And it gets at him a little more than it perhaps should. Yut-Lung finds himself catching the wave of emotion before it can really hit its mark. “I don’t.” _But the fact that I don’t makes me feel like a monster._

“But you feel guilty.” Shorter says.

Yut-Lung doesn’t answer.

Shorter sighs, but he doesn’t press on the matter.

And the pain fades away with the noise.

-

It’s a given that Yut-Lung is going to leave without saying anything.

Besides, he has never felt the need to announce his leave—to tell people when and where he is going and what time he would be back. That kind of thing hasn’t ever felt natural to him because he’s just never really done it before.

But, this time, he’s not saying anything because he knows they’ll be backlash. Something from Shorter about having promised he’d stay the entire night and at least eat breakfast or something along the lines of that.

Yut-Lung, of course, isn’t the type of person to keep his promises. He’s also not the kind of person who apologizes even when he knows he should. 

Walking away from the whole situation suits him better.

The light above flickers, casting a yellow glow over a meter of concrete. Yut-Lung glances at the shadow cast on the latter half of it then brings his gaze back to the front. He breathes out from his nose, lips pressed tightly together. “Why are you following me?”

“I was tasked—“

“Wang-Lung isn’t here. He hasn’t been calling for you since he asked you to follow me around like a lost puppy. You have no reason to serve me when that leash is now severed.”

Heavy silence fills the space in between then and Yut-Lung continues walking. The chauffeur doesn’t take another step forward. “There is no one else I want to serve.”

Yut-Lung scoffs. “Go back to Shorter. He’ll let you stay with him for the time being.”

“Did you not hear what I said?”

“I have ears, idiot.” 

“Then, why do you choose not to listen?” 

Sighing heavily, Yut-Lung lets out his breath fast, the air rushing out so quickly he feels a little light-headed. 

With everything that has passed—everything that he has learned in the span of a single day, how could he _not_ feel the way he is right now? Wretched and tired. He hasn’t cried a single tear since all this shit went down, but his eyes are glassy, his vision like thin sheets of warped glass in front of him. 

The emotion tugs at his heart, and he lifts his head a little, willing the tears to dissipate from his eyes. 

It doesn’t work, but it’s too dark for too many people to notice.

He forces out another puff of air. “What do you want me to call you?” 

“Jian.”

“Well then, do what you want, Jian,” Yut-Lung says. “Follow me and make the wound in your side worse—whatever you wish. But, unlike my brothers, I’m not your master, and I don’t want you to act like a servant. That being said, I won’t tolerate you acting as if you’re above me either.” He turns around slightly, long hair shining blue under the moonlight despite the yellow glow from the streetlights around him. It’s slightly wavy from drying in the loose braid Shorter plaited. “If you’re going to come with me, the relationship between us will be equal.” _Like... that of a friend._

In all his younger years in childhood, he spent his days locked up in that manor with his mother, reading books day in and day out and studying medicine and poisons with a tutor who hardly smiled and only pointed out Yut-Lung’s few mistakes, punishment in the form of red lashes against his hands. He spoke Mandarin with his mother who had originally grown up in a poor village in mainland China but never let his father hear him utter a single word other than those in Cantonese. 

It dawns on him that even after leaving that prison, he was incapable of making a friend. Nor did he even try to seek one, but having someone serve him was uncomfortable, to say the least.

He didn’t want people to do things for him because of some stupid hierarchy. It made the actions empty and forced. Like the way he was made to live these past sixteen years of his life.

Jian regards him with a level gaze, holding the moment for longer than it should before nodding. 

“Then, it’s settled.” He faces forward again, feet taking him further away from where he knows easy comfort is. 

Yut-Lung tells himself it’ll be fine if he goes on like this. He won’t be coming back—isn’t planning on seeing anyone here anymore. Even if there are lingering feelings, he knows that without proximity, it’s likely they’ll die away. 

Nothing lasts in long-distance. Humans are forgetful and fickle. 

He just hopes he’s the kind of person who lets his past slide from between his fingertips like grains of sand he’s never going to recognize ever again.

Paper crinkles in his pocket, and when he dips his fingers in to fish the note out, he has to stop for a moment, eyes fixed on the words. He’d found a stack of blank index cards and a few pens in Shorter’s room and considered writing one last goodbye. 

He’d even placed it in Sing’s room, at the foot of his bed.

But the moment he started walking away, the whole idea seemed too silly to him—too sentimental and unnecessary. So he’d grabbed it and shoved it in his pocket only to find himself out here.

_I’m sorry._

Yut-Lung crushes the note in his fist and brings his other hand up against the heat pulsing at his eyes, teeth clamping down on his bottom lip so no one can hear the sound of his heart breaking.

-

Eiji wakes up with sore shoulders and something hard pressing against his fingertips.

There’s still a cloud over his mind, the effects of whatever drug Blanca gave him in his veins. But the fact that he’s in someplace he doesn’t recognize is enough to wrench himself out of his daze.

He doesn’t know how much time has passed or what exactly he’s going to do now, but he knows he has to get out of this situation before any of it escalates.

Shifting from his side to his back, he manages to haul himself up to a sitting position despite how oddly he’s bound up, the rope looping from his wrists up to his elbows and around his waist.

His heart is pounding a little louder than comfortable, and he’s aware he’s panicking just a little bit, but he tries to swallow it down. Having his body seize up before breaking into tremors and feeling like he’s about to die isn’t going to help him at all.

Taking in a shaky breath of air, Eiji licks his lips, squeezing his eyes shut for a moment before feeling around for the solid object he had flush against his fingers.

When he grabs on to it, he manages to twist his body just enough to the right to take a glimpse of it.

It’s a switchblade, the sharp end folded back. 

Eiji has no clue how the heck he’s supposed to use it with his hands tied up so tightly. 

_Trust me._

The words blink into memory, Blanca’s deep voice reverberating in Eiji’s head.

The kind of look he gave him was the kind that would pin anyone down despite their response to run away, and it had definitely kept Eiji in place even though he knew at that moment that something was going to go wrong. He doesn’t really understand Blanca’s reasoning for forcing him here and leaving him in this horrible position with a weapon he doesn’t know how to flip open and hold in his current predicament, but maybe he just had to stop thinking about it for the time so he can actually do something.

Carefully sliding his hand along the knife, Eiji feels for anything. When his thumb runs across some tiny lever, he cranes his neck around again, then pushes it to the side. 

The blade springs out immediately, and Eiji drops it, started at how quickly it went. He also didn’t want to get one of his fingers chopped off or his hand sliced.

Grabbing onto the handle again, he arches his body forward as much as it will go, sliding the knife in the space between his back and his binds. Then, he saws away at the rope, fingers aching and wrists burning from the constant back-and-forth movement. 

It takes a while, but the bonds finally give away, the rope snapping and freeing his hands. Straining against the knot holding his upper arms together, Eiji cuts the one around his stomach before shrugging the rest of it off onto the bed. 

When he breathes out again, it’s because of relief, but his whole upper body aches and throbs from being in such an awkward twisted shape for so long. There are angry red rings around his wrists, his arms, and the rope has bitten into his skin, but at least the blood doesn’t run. 

Sliding off the mattress, Eiji slowly pads up to the closed door, hand braced against the handle and turning, heart loud in his ears. When the knob doesn’t move any further, he pulls the door open slightly—just enough so he can see outside but not enough that it’s noticeable.

There is, oddly, no one in the hallway and no one in sight. In fact, Eiji can’t even hear a single soul breathe in his part of the manor, and wonders if Blanca is really bringing him here only to let him escape, or if they all think he’s harmless enough that he’ll lay there with the ropes still tight around his arms sniveling like a child.

He might look like a kid, but there is no way Eiji will just take everything as it is. He’s let everything and everyone go once before, and that got him nowhere. He’s not making the same kind of mistake all over again.

Slipping outside, he closes the door behind him, eyes darting to both sides to check for Golzine’s men before opting for the left where a set of stairs are seen disappearing off the top of the hallway. 

He’s just about to emerge when he hears footsteps and flattens himself against the wall before crouching behind a decorative half-table with dried flowers in a clear vase on top. The long tablecloth covering its center drapes off the front in fringed tassels, brushing against Eiji’s forehead.

The guards never talk. They only continue their path through the manor, not stopping to observe their surroundings or even stop by Eiji’s room to check if he’s there. If anything, they look like they’re in a hurry, brisk strides taking them to the end of the foyer before their bodies disappear into a different part of the manor.

Eiji, for one, can’t understand why anyone would want to live in such a large place. It wasn’t a kind of institution with thousands of individual rooms, but it was still large enough to house at least fifty people.

He allows a minute to pass by before emerging from his hiding spot and dashing towards the stairs, taking each step at a time, but swiftly. If there was anything useful he got especially good at while back at Izumo, it was the fact that when he did come out of his room, he could maneuver himself in a way that no one in his family would notice his presence. 

Before another long hallway of rooms, Eiji sees painted portraits lining the walls, following the curve of the stairs as they ascend up in a crescent arc. He recognizes a woman who looks strikingly similar to Yut-Lung, her lips painted red, skin milky-white, long black hair done up in a half-bun, the rest hanging like silk over her shoulders. She smiles, but it doesn’t look genuine. And Eiji realizes that none of the people depicted in these portraits look happy at all. He has to tear his eyes away, fingers gripping the dark wood of the banister. 

When he lets go and steps past the row of portraits, he doesn’t exactly feel any lighter. The same uncomfortable feeling trails after him like a shadow that exists past sunset. 

Holding his breath, Eiji tries each door of every room, opening one, eyes darting around to check its interior before quickly shutting it close. 

Ash’s name escapes Eiji’s lips before he can help himself. He’s asking for him over and over again in stifled desperation. A chant.

He’s about to look into another room when the door in front of him opens. 

It’s Ash.

“Eiji?” His voice is tiny and quiet, jade eyes stretched wide before his brows come together, lashes fanning down as he tries to make sense of the scene in front of him.

Stifling the things he wants to say right then and there, Eiji lets himself in before closing the door, locking it. Of course, doing so wasn’t ensuring them a private sphere where they could unravel whatever it is that’s between them, but Eiji figures it’s better than nothing.

The fact that Golzine didn’t have people guard and tie Ash up means he thinks he has a strong enough influence over him. Looking at Ash right now, who seems confused out of his mind and also very, _very hurt,_ makes Eiji wonder how much worse this Golzine could really be. He once thought there was a limit to depravity within one’s soul, but maybe blackening someone’s insides to the point of overflowing isn’t even considered the worst. It is tainting the people around then with that poison that makes them out to be some kind of demon.

“Why?” There is more force behind Ash’s words as he takes everything in, but his voice trembles under pressure. His eyes don’t lie; he knows he isn’t hallucinating either—Eiji understands that Ash isn’t the kind of person who will explain away things when the evidence is clear in his face. 

“Why are _you_ here?”

Not daring to take another step forward, Eiji knots his fingers into one side of his sweater, eyes flickering away before settling onto Ash again. _”I can explain”_ is what he wants to say, but the cliché line will only make him look infallibly guilty. There is no single route for him to take than to lay the facts down and lay them down hard.

He swallows, heart palpitating in his chest. He has to suck in a few breaths of air to clear up the dizziness that makes his mind hazy and dips his body in nausea. “It’s true that Max and Ibe asked me to get closer to you. And it’s true they wanted to know more about your past.”

Ash’s eyes widen again.

“But I—“ Eiji licks his lips. He has to press his hand against the wall to steady himself because he’s shaking so much. “My motive was different. I befriended you because I _wanted_ to—not because I _had_ to. I-I hardly even told them anything about you, much less whatever happened between us. You probably already know, but I’m not the kind of person who will divulge others’ personal issues. I won’t tell people sensitive things they shouldn’t know unless you want them to. But it doesn’t mean I’m excused,” he continues. “Believe me when I say I never told you any of this because it all went to the recesses of my mind when you started to talk to me. I wasn’t trying to hide everything from you, Ash.”

“No.”

Stepping forward, Eiji holds a hand out. It flutters in the air before coming back to his side. _I don’t know what to say. I don’t know_ how _to say it._

“After all of this—“ Sweeping his hand in front of him, Ash’s bottom lip trembles. “After everything that has happened, I’ve realized I barely even know _who_ you are. I don’t—“

“Because I don’t share my problems with anyone,” Eiji interrupts. Any more and he’s going to break. “I don’t tell people things, I _know,_ and I understand that makes me untrustworthy and reticent. I have a wall up, and you do too, but the kind of self-disclosure you’ve given to me hasn’t been reciprocated. I know—I _know_ that makes you believe everything is one-sided, but I promise it’s not.”

But Ash doesn’t let the matter go. He wears a kind of miserable, cruel smile like everything is already a tragedy. “Am I that easy to you? Do you think you can get me on your side just because I _feel_ things for you?” His voice rises before it falls just as quickly to a whisper, the words scraping against Ash’s throat, like venom on his tongue. 

Chest heaving with his fingers curling into the painted drywall, Eiji notices the lines across Ash’s face, the way he steps back and loses his balance so easily when the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed frame. 

Ash bends over, hands fisting the sheets. Blond hair falls into his face, obscuring his features, his jade eyes that Eiji has always found beautiful. “Do you have any idea what you _mean_ to me?”

“Ash—“

“And now everything is falling apart—everything is fucking _falling apart,_ and you’re here apologizing, asking for forgiveness?”

Lips pressing together, Eiji’s heart clenches. It clenches and it tightens until a part of it breaks, the muscle ripping at the seams he’s just sewn together these past two months. “I’m not,” he breathes, frustrated. “Ash, I would _never,_ and I don’t even _deserve_ to even be forgiven for hurting you so much. You’ve given me so much when it takes everything for you to open up, and I’ve been completely ignorant of it. I was—“ He sucks in a breath of air, but that doesn’t conceal the fact that he’s also on the verge of splitting apart. _”—so_ caught up with the kind of things I’ve been dealing with that I neglected to realize that even though you seem stronger than everyone else, you can also get this hurt _too.”_ His voice cracks in the end, but he’s too preoccupied with the chaos that has come to pass within a mere day to be even slightly mortified at the ulceration of his soul. 

Eiji’s heart has stopped squeezing so painfully, but there’s still a distinct throbbing at its core that sends pangs of grief through his nerves. It’s completely different than the emptiness he’s experienced before—this is more subtle, but so much more poignant. And it tears him apart in an agonizingly slow way.

 _Oh god._ The moment his throat constricts and the familiar burning sensation flares up behind his eyes, Eiji blindly grapples with the door handle, tossing all sense and keenness out of the window. He didn’t come here to _cry_ in front of Ash, for goodness sake.

If anything, he’s supposed to be finding Blanca and maybe figuring out a way to get them all out of this place without Golzine catching on to them.

When his fingers find the smooth metal, Eiji whips around as he yanks the handle down, pushing the door open at the same time. 

A hand overlaps his, slamming the door shut. Jumping from the noise, Eiji gasps, but it comes out as a small whimper instead, the first few tears spilling from his eyes and onto his cheeks.

The hand pries his away from the door and spins him around. It’s happening too fast for Eiji to process, and though Eiji can _comprehend_ it’s Ash and that Ash is always gentle when they touch, the roughness of the movements brings Eiji to a state of panic where nothing makes sense anymore. 

Shoving his hands against the body in front of him, Eiji breaks away with a noise of protest, legs giving away. His knees fall onto the wood floor with a thud, and he hunches over for several seconds, palms flat against the ground, muscles tense. His vision is still swimming with unshed tears and he doesn’t know why his face is suddenly heating up really fast, the effects not any better when the pressure of the room starts to bear down on him from all sides.

Eiji takes in a breath of air, but it lodged in his throat, and he can’t seem to get it down, catching the air halfway and shuddering because he suddenly _can’t breathe._

He hears his name, but he can’t focus on the person who’s saying it.

Shaking hands cover his, bringing them up, causing his whole body to uncurl until he’s sitting back onto his heels.

Someone tells him to exhale, and through the extreme fear that literally overwhelms and saturates Eiji from head to toe, he stabilizes just enough to see Ash in front of him again, fingers loosely threaded through his as if to give Eiji something to hold onto if he needs to.

He wants to tell himself it’s going to be okay, but even after he rides out the panic, Eiji knows this isn’t going to be the end.

His body is hyper-aware of the figure that is now standing behind him and the few others flocking it.

“Aslan Callenreese.” The voice is cold.

Ash wraps an arm around Eiji’s shoulder, drawing himself closer to Eiji’s shivering form, and growls, a low sound that Eiji can feel from the vibrations of his chest, overlapping the pounding of his heartbeat. 

“Don’t fucking _touch_ him.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! :’)
> 
> I'm super angsty right now but that's okay. Thinking about Xue Yang (and Xiao Xingchen) has got me realizing how similar he is to Yut-Lung. It's always these characters who completely mess me up.
> 
> (And ackkkkk idk if you all have watched _The Untamed_ before but I am now trash for Wei Ying and Lan Zhan like _holy_ —if I studied during my three-day break instead of being convinced by my sister to watch this with her, I would’ve never probably met them (through screen haha). Legit I never watch Chinese dramas because most of the ones I’ve been recommended (or watched clips of) really only talk about romance (the annoying kind tbh), politics, or family matters (and drag the fuck out of them), but _The Untamed_ is seriously something else. I highly, _highly_ recommend it if you like xianxia, pretty boys who are more than just their face, bromance (bl in the original novel), angst (that completely murders you) and fluff (that heals/prepares you for the pain), amazing character design, and just a suuuuuper suuuper good plot line with like the most heart-wrenching scenes (and cute af scenes) and scattered clues that make sense only when you’ve watched it all to the end!! (The first few eps will be somewhat confusing, but I promise you won’t regret it if you give it a chance.) It’s got me reeling after binging it, and I’ll probably go ahead and read the novel and watch the donghua after this tbh. Thank god for brilliant writers (and the entire production team, of course) who make these characters come alive ugh I don’t know what I’d do without them. I’m ranting and it’s 3am but guys—seriously. *whispers* It’s so good and these boys (and girls, ofc) will be in my heart forever.)


	15. Chapter 15

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> One can say that Eiji is perhaps Ash’s greatest weakness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the long wait!!

“He must really want to die, that little—” Shorter bites off a curse, fist slamming against the doorframe of his room. The bed is miraculously made, the robe Yut-Lung slept in folded neatly at the foot of the bed. 

Shorter scrutinizes the scene for a while longer until he realizes that it probably isn’t Yut-Lung who cleaned up after himself but his chauffeur. 

He had fallen asleep before Shorter even finished dressing the wound in his back, curled up against his chest, cheek pressed against his shoulder, body boneless with the stress temporarily out of his system. For a moment, Shorter actually thought he was pretty cute—and _of course,_ he’d think that because he’d wake up sometimes to find Yut-Lung clinging to him in the morning, but those past sentiments have already faded away. 

If anything, Shorter doesn’t know whether he’s angrier that Yut-Lung broke his promise and left without saying a word or if he’s overly concerned again because he planned on checking both Yut-Lung and his driver’s wounds again before they decided to leave. 

Yut-Lung might be in the clear, but Shorter doesn’t understand how that driver of his could just get up in the middle of the night and walk off like he wasn’t just stabbed in the side and bleeding profusely the day before. 

_Some things were just left to explain themselves later, I guess._

“Who?” Sing stares at him, elbows braced against the black marble counter as he dips his spoon into the tofu pudding in front of him, breaking off a piece with his spoon before savoring it. It’s still hot, steam rising from the soft tofu, the smell of ginger and sugar permeating the air. A familiar scent. Shorter loved eating this when he was younger; he still does. 

Sing already looks better himself, cheeks still slightly flushed from crying so much yesterday, the rims of his eyes red. He stayed with Nadia and Charlie the night before as per Nadia’s request to “devour ice cream and ride out the pain for as long as possible” before passing out near four in the morning. 

When Shorter drove over to pick him up, he was already at the door, usual oversized sweatshirt donned over a pair of shorts. His hands were gloveless, and Shorter notices that Sing hasn’t worn his gloves for a very, very long time. Which also probably meant he wasn’t getting himself into trouble for the time being because he always wore them whenever he was about to do something reckless. 

He hardly said anything—just offered Shorter a half-smile before sliding into the car and announcing that he felt like eating something sweet. 

All he had was ice cream yesterday and now he’s eating tofu pudding for lunch after sleeping through breakfast. This is one of the only times Shorter will allow him to skip eating something substantial for so long. 

“An old friend,” Shorter says. 

“Oh.” Sing drills his eyes into Shorter’s skull. 

“I’m not gonna tell you who it is.” 

Taking another bite of tofu, then sipping on the sweet soup, Sing doesn’t take his eyes off of him. “Why not? Because this person is dangerous?” 

“Dangerous?” Shorter actually has the ability to laugh at the comment despite still being overly concerned. “Mm…” A sigh escapes his lips. “He can be if he wants to be, but I’d say he’s more of a threat to himself.”

Sing sifts his eyes away, deep in thought. “Seems like an interesting person.” 

“If he had a different name and family, I’d probably still be with him today,” Shorter mumbles, the words slipping out before he can actually think about it. 

But the surprise is already flitting across Sing’s features, spoon pausing midway to his mouth. “You’ve _dated?”_

Shorter is probably digging his own grave, but he still continues anyway, now that he’s already blabbed and gotten that information out in the open. “Well, we both never actually asked each other out or confirmed that fact, but I kept him company and I guess he spared some time for me too.” 

“Holy shit.”

“Language,” Shorter automatically snaps.

“I didn’t know you were capable of actually getting someone for yourself, but hey, you’ve done it before.” Sing pauses. “Apparently. So you ended things with him because of his family? What, are his parents like Charlie’s?” 

“It’s a little more complicated than that.” 

“So, like in a drama?” 

Screwing up his face, Shorter pushes himself off from the counter. “Life doesn’t play out like a drama, Sing. Did Nadia make you binge-watch another one with her yesterday?” 

“One, Nadia doesn’t _force_ me to watch them with her; I actually like them. Two—” After another spoonful of pudding, Sing points the end of his utensil at Shorter. “—some of them are actually really good and you should try them out yourself.”

“I’ll pass.” 

Sing shrugs. “Your loss. They make you feel less sad about the things that are happening to your life and more so sad about what’s happening to the characters. It’s kind of a good way to escape.” 

“By purposefully making yourself sad?” Shorter doesn’t get his logic. 

“By taking my mind off of people I’d rather not think about,” Sing says. “Though, sometimes that backfires when one of the characters reminds you of that person. I don’t know; maybe I’m a bit of a masochist.” 

“Uh, yeah. I can’t understand people like you and Nadia who thrive off of watching angsty dramas with bittersweet or tragic endings.”

“Watch one with us and you will.”

“Okay.” Shorter puts his hands up, knowing they’ll be talking in circles if he doesn’t end it first. “I’m done with this conversation.”

When Sing is finished with his tofu pudding, he hops off the stool, padding to the sink to wash his bowl and spoon before placing them to dry in the dishwasher. 

Shorter watches his every move, and Sing notices how intently Shorter’s eyes are on him, giving him an odd look.

“What? Is there something wrong with my face?” 

“I mean, you were so depressed yesterday, and you look completely fine today so I was—” He jumps back, narrowly missing getting kicked in the shin by Sing whose look has become that of knives.

“Do you think I have time to mope around?” Sing brushes past Shorter, pushing the stool he was sitting in with his foot before making his way to the stairs up to his room. “I have to study for my ACT; I’m taking them next year.” He glances back at his cousin. “Unlike you who already had a successful business out of high school, I’ll have zero future if I play around. You do know it’s getting increasingly harder to get into college, right?” 

Shorter’s jaw drops, but Sing doesn’t notice as he’s already at his door, shutting it close behind him. 

_Holy—_

-

Ash has tried saving people before.

He’s tried saving the kids who Golzine put under his watch, tried saving Misha and Sasha whose end had carved the worse nightmare in his dreams. He’s even tried saving Griffin when his parents suddenly left without a single word, but to no avail. 

When he was younger, he rebelled against the world and went down a path he would have never chosen to walk had he been a normal child in a normal family. 

But the thing with life is that it is never fair. Ash doesn’t believe in fate; rather, he believes in the kind of free will that gets him into these kinds of situations. Had Golzine decided not to mess with his family, maybe he’d still have them all beside him. Had he not tried to go against the standards Golzine set for him, he probably wouldn’t have ever met Eiji. And maybe, had his parents decided not to have him at all, he wouldn’t have gotten so many people hurt in the first place. 

He wouldn’t be on the floor, clutching Eiji to his chest like it’s somehow going to save him from everything, fixing his dark gaze on Golzine and his men. Blanca stands at the very back, his dark eyes on the scene in front of him, face blank. 

The heavy tension in the air can’t even be compared to the kind of seething rage that has balled itself at the center of Ash’s heart. He is afraid, of course—scared that he’s going to lose someone else he’s able to save, but the hate and anger almost overwhelm everything else. 

There is no one else in this world who Ash abhors more than Dino Golzine.

Golzine eyes Eiji whose forehead is pressed against Ash chest, exhaling and inhaling forcefully, his breath sometimes catching at his throat. “I had him brought here as insurance, but I didn’t know he would go as far as to find you.” He raises a brow. “Nor did I really think he had the capability to find you.”

 _”Why—”_ When his voice comes out hoarse, Ash breaks off, starting again. “Why him? You have me already; I told you I would go with you to France. What does he have anything to do with this?” 

“It’s possible,” Golzine says. “I’ve already said; he’s here for insurance. How can I be sure that you haven’t disclosed sensitive information to him?”

Ash shakes his head, fingers rigid and unmoving around Eiji even as he has the urge to tighten them—to pull him closer as if he could really protect him from the person in front of him. “Am I that stupid to trust someone I’ve just met two months ago, much less bring my guard down and risk hurting him by making him one of your targets?” It’s a lie. It’s all a lie, of course. Because Ash really was that stupid and he really didn’t think things through before he spilled everything in front of Eiji at Shorter’s penthouse. 

Throughout all his life, he’s made sure to put up a thick enough wall, to only thin it out for those who he knew were either related or already knew about what happened, but he has never let someone in that fast or that deep as he let Eiji. Ash shed his armor every time he was around him; one can say that Eiji is perhaps Ash’s greatest weakness.

And the fact that Golzine already knows this makes the whole ordeal even worse.

His words confirm it. “Did you not hear clearly? I’ve had him brought here for insurance,” Golzine repeats. His voice isn’t the steely calmness Ash is used to; there is another layer to his tone that degrades it. Golzine is growing impatient, the fissures that surfaced in his façade spidering across his features. 

Golzine is a member of the Corsican mafia; even if he was part of the network of street crime across New York, he was far up the ladder that he didn’t dirty his hands with underhanded methods or lie when he didn’t need to. He answered to the others above him, after all, and getting caught red-handed when he was supposed to show the utmost respect and loyalty to them would mean getting toppled over from his current cushy position. 

So the fact that Golzine was desperate enough to force a few more cards in his hand meant that something was wrong. What he planned isn’t going how he wants it to be.

Ash’s eyes swivel to Blanca. Golzine claims he is the one who tore apart his family, but Ash can barely make himself feel resentful towards him. The man who is kills his Golzine; Blanca is his weapon. 

The rage that was once boiling hot in his veins lessens by a few degrees, but barely. Ash feels the edges of his lips curling up. In the palm of his hand obscured by Eiji’s body is the knife he’d fished out from Eiji’s pocket minutes ago. It is cold, surrounded by a sea of fire. “What? Have your subordinates in France turned their backs on you?”

Golzine ignores his comment, but the way his lips turn white at Ash’s words is a telltale sign Ash is correct. “The jet comes tonight. We are done with this conversation.” He turns to the man beside him. “The boy.”

Ash guards Eiji closer. “He stays with me.” 

“Aslan, I have tolerated your rebelliousness when you were younger, but I will not today.”

Eiji finally speaks, voice low as he pushes against Ash’s chest. “Ash, I’ll be okay.”

Without looking at him, Ash lifts his body up slightly, pushing Eiji behind him. The hard body of the knife presses against Eiji’s arm as Ash does so, and Eiji’s eyes widen, breath catching as he clutches Ash’s arm from behind.

_”Ash.”_

He only offers him a small smile. ”Don’t worry,” he says in Japanese, “I’m not saying goodbye.” 

The surprise barely registers on Eiji’s face, his lips parting.

Golzine is impatient, shoving one of his men forward. _”The Japanese boy,”_ he barks. “Take him away.”

“How would it feel if all your hard work went into the trash, huh, Golzine?” Ash twirls the knife in his hand, watching as it flips over his knuckles and back into his palm. The sharp end is already out, cutting through the air. 

The man beside him pulls out a gun, and Golzine whips his out in an irate fit, lodging a bullet in his head. The guards flanking him remain silent, hands rigid at their sides. 

“You only care for yourself, easily disposing of those who you don’t deem necessary for your ascent, but I realized that some people play a bigger role than I thought.” Ash points the knife at him. “If something were to suddenly happen to your _”son,”_ it would be a problem right? That’s why you had Blanca take me away temporarily. Because I was at the end of my rope back then when you decided to kill those innocent kids.” 

Veins bulge from Golzine’s temple, blue and green. “Aslan, I am _warning_ you…”

“Are you tired of this?” Ash flips the knife around, pointing the end of it at his heart. His eyes burn. “Because I am.”

No one is quick enough to stop him before the knife plunges down.

-

_Red._

That is all Eiji can see.

The red staining the front of Ash’s shirt, dotting the plaid button-down Eiji nearly ripped off from his shoulders to press against his chest, transferring onto his skin. 

Ash keeps on murmuring to him over and over again in Japanese not to worry and that he purposefully gave himself a non-fatal wound by avoiding his vitals, but how the heck is he supposed to stay calm when all of this is happening way to fast for him to even comprehend?

All he knows, what Ash did was horribly, completely, _supremely_ stupid, and if Blanca could’ve taken out all those guards and restrained Golzine that fast in the first place, shouldn’t they have all been in the clear?

But then again, he and Ash didn’t know Blanca was on their side. Something like suddenly seeing the face of someone you’re on good terms with standing opposite to you is already shocking enough; hearing the words “trust me” really wasn’t going to do much of anything. And considering it now, if Eiji didn’t have that switchblade in his back pocket and if Blanca never brought him here, maybe Ash wouldn’t be in this situation in the first place.

Blanca may have ignored direct orders to bring Eiji in, and Ash might as well have been god-knows-where Golzine wants to take him, but he wouldn’t be _hurt._

 _“Aslan!”_ Behind them, Golzine is furious, spittle flying out of his mouth, face reddening past human capabilities as Blanca finishes tying him to the bed frame. The other guards are all wrapped up nice and neat and lined in the hallway, now unconscious. 

Eiji swallows hard, heart thudding a thousand beats per second, vision warbling as he finds himself unable to breathe properly, a knot forming in his chest. He curls his fingers into the plaid shirt before shaking his head, eyes squeezing shut as he shakes his head vehemently, forcing himself to count up slowly. He visualizes ocean waves, immerses himself into a scene of an empty beach on Izumo, the water softly lapping at his toes as he takes one step forward, then another until he is waist-deep. When he feels the stark cold of the waves and the heat of the sun above, his lungs stop sporadically releasing air even when he can’t take any in, the rhythm of his breaths tamed. 

Eiji’s eyes snap open to look down at Ash who is staring back up at him, face pale, the hand that grips his wrist loosening a little. 

“How _dare_ you—you _little—“_ Blanca bites off a curse, chest heaving. But the caustic words don’t stop tumbling out from his mouth. “I took you from that mediocre family, raised and tailored you to become who you are today. You could inherit everything that I have, but you’re casting it all away for this useless _boy?_ Death serves you no—“ He is cut off when Blanca balls up a piece of cloth and shoves it in his mouth, tying a ripped strip of bedsheet around that digs hard into his lips and cheeks. 

To be honest, Eiji never thought taking Golzine down would be this simple. He thought that there must’ve been much more to stop him from escaping with Ash. But what Ash did caught him off guard. It stupified everyone, giving Blanca the perfect opening. There weren’t too many men guarding the manor in the first place, and Eiji has a feeling that Blanca already took care of the ones who didn’t appear with Golzine.

“Apologies for the scare,” Blanca says, crouching down next to Eiji. Stretching out an arm, he lets two fingers hover below Ash’s nose and takes note of his pulse before easily taking Eiji’s hands off of Ash and peeling away part of Ash’s bloody shirt to assess the wound. _”Monseiur_ would’ve fled with Ash or Ash would’ve done something even more stupid if I didn’t bring you here. I could have gotten him out on my own, but time was sensitive and I wasn’t sure if he would trust me, given that _Monsieur_ probably told him my loyalties don’t necessarily lie with him. Brining you here under the guise that I am under _Monsieur’s_ command was the quickest way to apprehend him and bring Ash back.”

Silent, Eiji only gazes down at Ash. 

“The police and ambulance should come soon; I had an acquaintance tip them off about _Monseiur_ and Ash’s whereabouts.” Sighing softly, Blanca pats Ash gently on the head like a father to their son before turning his full attention onto Eiji. “He will be alright; he’s resilient, I know this well enough. As for _Monsieur,_ he won’t escape the law; I’ve made sure of that. And as for me, on the other hand,—“ He gets up, rolling his shoulders back. “I’m due for a long holiday.”

“Blanca…” Ash manages to growl underneath his breath even as his brows come together from the pain. _“You should have—“_

“I know, I know,” he interrupts, waving a hand in the air. Pausing, he presses his lips together, head dipping down for a moment as his eyes close. “I can’t be forgiven for some of the things I did in the past, but rest assured that your parents are fine and well and know you’re mostly fine too. I’ll send another letter later before I leave. Belated condolences about your brother. On the contrary, you, Ash, can be saved.” Blanca’s gaze lingers on both Eiji and Ash before switching over to rest them on Golzine’s. He claps his hands together, nodding. “Mm, good. Be nice to Max; he’ll be handling the agency from now on—not that I really did much anyway.”

He looks like he wants to offer his goodbyes but decidedly leaves without a second’s thought, tall figure waltzing out of the door and down the hallway. 

Eiji has always thought of him as an odd person. He still doesn’t understand him, and perhaps Blanca will always remain an enigma. But, then again, most people were indiscernible beings, and sometimes, the things they did were incomprehensible no matter how much you looked at it.

A shuddering breath leaves his lips.

Eiji feels a little lost.

And when the police and EMTs arrive on the scene, he can’t keep up with the pace of their movements and questions either.

Like an adrenaline rush that overtakes you, the after-effects sap you of everything twofold.

They let him stay with Ash as he is rushed to the hospital, but he doesn’t remember when Ibe comes to pick him up, worried beyond belief.

His head hits the pillow, limbs against the mattress like he’s floating. He submits, giving himself away to sleep and wonders if it is as simple to give himself away to all the feelings that have long since sat dormant in his chest.

-

According to everyone, Ash is okay.

That despite the fact that he went ahead and stabbed himself like that, he is fine.

It isn’t that Eiji thinks everyone is lying just to make himself feel better or that something really, really bad has actually happened and they don’t want to trigger a panic attack or something else, but that Eiji hasn’t been more bothered and agitated in his entire life. 

Facing Ash when he thought everything was going to go down the drain is one thing, but realizing that his internal premonitions haven’t come to pass and that events are turning out for the better is another thing. Because that means a lot of talks and a lot of clarification and a lot of dislodging any miscommunications or misinterpretations that have already piled up high between Ash and Eiji.

It also means its high time Eiji stops running away and confronts his past altogether. 

It’s been on his mind for forever, swirling about as he goes through each week trailing after Ibe at the agency, but he hasn’t addressed it yet. 

He doesn’t even know if he’s going to open up or if the tides are going to swallow him whole again from the edge of the shoreline, pulling him further away from the city and closer to the very center of the ocean. 

After the storm—the back and forth of the waves, relentless in a way that is suffocating, a sinking feeling that has receded somewhat from Eiji’s mind, no longer pulling him down to the bottom, he feels somewhat calmer. A soothing sensation as if he’s floating in that wide, blue expanse and can finally take in a breath of air without choking. 

There was a hand that reached down to grab onto him, pulling him against something solid, an anchor he couldn’t see.

It’s almost too cliché—how the dark that has encompassed him for what feels like forever is withering away. 

And in that light, he sees blond hair that appears transparent, watching the way they fall softly over jade eyes. A boy two years his junior whose body and heart are a web of scars, cut over and over by those thin threads and is bleeding even now, his blood like morning dew. It’s shining crimson—a bold color, terrifying and yet beautiful at the same time.

Ash has never asked him whether he was afraid of him or afraid of the things he’s done, but Eiji believes that if the question ever passes by his lips, the answer will undeniably be _“no, never.”_

He takes in a deep breath, pausing for a moment before bracing his hand against the door’s handle, other hand pressed against his heart like it’s somehow going to be protected from anything and everything.

Eiji opens the door before he talks himself out of it.

Ash is propped up with multiple pillows, one perched up in his lap as he rests his arms on top, a book in his hands. He looks healthy enough—the sort of healthy that means he doesn’t appear shallow, deathly pale, or in pain. His complexion is a little more bloodless than usual, his skin somewhat resembling a sheet of tissue paper. Translucent like frosted glass. 

It makes Eiji swallow as he closes the door behind him before approaching Ash’s bedside. They didn’t necessarily part before clearing up the confusion surrounding Eiji’s potential motives for narrowing the gap between him and Ash relationship-wise, and though he is perceptive enough to feel a sense of animosity and general understanding from Ash at the moment, it doesn’t mean he’s any less remorseful about what happened. Or how Ash got tangled up with Golzine again, though Eiji still doesn’t know exactly how the information spread when Max swore he put the flash drive back as promised.

The gentle thoughts he was having prior to stepping into this room become a bit heavier.

Putting down his book, Ash lays it face-down on the table next to him. A puff of air escapes his mouth as he turns to face Eiji wearing a small smile. “Took you long enough, Ei-chan. Making me wait all week long is torturous, you know?”

Forcing his lips together, Eiji swallows the knot that has formed at his throat down hard, but when he opens his mouth to speak, the words still won’t come out. He realizes he doesn’t even really know what to say anymore. It’s not like him to be at a true loss for words when he’s typically holding them in most of the time. 

Ash continues, “At the Lee’s manor, sorry for saying all those shitty things at the spur of the moment. And sorry for scaring you; I didn’t mean to grab you so suddenly like that. I’m also sorry for dragging you into the problem and not being conscientious of what could happen if Golzine caught wind of you. It’s my fault for putting you in danger.” His eyes swivel away. “It goes to say that I should’ve probably kept a distance from you even when you piqued my interest during your first day at the agency. I shouldn’t have kept you so close.”

Eiji’s mouth feels dry, jaw going slack for a second before he starts shaking his head, hand inadvertently grabbing Ash’s. “No—“ _if you hadn’t done that—if you left me all alone and ignored me after introducing yourself on formalities alone, I would’ve… I would’ve...—what exactly?_ The thoughts leave him a little breathless. _Still be in my own world, dragged down by the ocean, leaning on Ibe-San as my only crutch, never respond to my sister’s texts, never attempted to call my parents even once, continued to be stuck in that seemingly perfunctory state of—_ “Don’t say that,” he says instead, voice tiny. It’s not hoarse like he expected, but still lacking in strength. Eiji wonders if the words themselves have ample conviction in them.

“And…” He looks up, fingers tightening around Ash’s. “Please don’t apologize. There is nothing I find that states that you are to blame.” Eyes flickering away momentarily, Eiji lets out a breath through his nose. “If anything, you have reason to be angry at me and even more reason to have said and done all those things; after all, you’re very much human, right?”

“Doesn’t mean all actions are forgivable.”

“Of course; that goes without saying,” Eiji says, “but yours are.” 

“Mm, are you sure?”

Eiji’s eyes fall back onto Ash’s face. “Yes.”

“You know,” Ash muses, “these past few days incapacitated in bed, I’ve been wondering what would’ve happened if I was just some foreign exchange student from New York at your university. Would we have met or would we have passed by each other like ghosts? And then—” The corner of Ash’s lips quirk up and he props his cheek up on a fist, tilting his head to one side. Eiji’s heart squeezes at the sight. “—I thought that since there’s probably no such thing as fate anyway, that would be pretty horrible. Since we probably wouldn’t meet.”

If this was the usual Ash, Eiji would no doubt expect him to backtrack his words and find that they were much too sentimental or sweet, but this _isn’t_ the usual Ash. His guard is down, barriers besieged and crumpled. Eiji can’t help but feel the heat crawl up his neck in response, the hand he used to suddenly hold Ash’s trembling.

Isn’t he the one who is supposed to spin words like these that make Ash flustered instead? 

“Excuse me?”

Snatching his hand away, Eiji stands bolt upright, twisting around immediately. 

A nurse blinks at him before offering a smile. “Would you mind stepping out for a sec, Mr. Okumura?”

“I was planning on leaving soon anyway,” Eiji lies straight through his teeth, returning the smile with a curt bow. He glances back at Ash who hasn’t budged, fingers splayed out over the white sheets where Eiji just forced their hands apart, the residual heat still burning the tips of his ears. “Thank you for tending to Ash; I’ll leave him in your care.”

Before he rushes out of the room, Ash speaks. “We’ll talk later, yeah?”

Eiji calms himself down a little, but it’s not enough to give him the strength to look him straight in the eye. “Of course.”

When Eiji arrives back to the apartment, the heat that stains his cheeks hasn’t washed off, and when I’ve lightly asks him if he’s feeling alright, he blames it on the summer weather.

In somewhat of a daze, he excuses himself to his room, plopping down into his room and swallows hard, finally burying his face in his hands, the air rushing out of his lungs before he sucks in a deep breath that pierces right through him.

He realizes he’s been in a dream-like state for a long while already, his days spent assisting Ibe when needed, making small banter with the crew and answering their prodding questions without really thinking about his answers. It’s like he’s waking up after having been intoxicated for a few weeks straight. 

When his eyes met Ash’s, he became sober.

And he wonders how long it will take for him to fall back into an alcohol-induced condition when he meets Ash again.

-

The day was long.

Longer than needed; longer than any one of them expected. Which was honestly fine for Eiji because he didn’t mind the hassle of shoots that didn’t go as planned, but it also meant that they would be leaving right around the time when most corporate-business workers and others with nine-to-five day jobs were getting off and going home. 

Max suggested Ibe and Eiji stay at the agency for a little while longer to work on the next concept since it is already this late, but Ibe politely declined, saying he had made some kind of appointment with someone months ago and if he didn’t hail a taxi now, he would be horribly late. 

This was somewhat surprising to Eiji. While he knows Ibe is the kind of person who likes filling up his time rather than going home early and staying in, he also knows Ibe likes to keep everything close. If he was going out, he must be seeing a particular person as wandering around the city with his camera in hand is something he can do any time.

In any case, Eiji didn’t feel like it was his place to pry. If Ibe didn’t elaborate on his plans, Eiji wasn’t going to ask him about them. So despite Ibe wanting to take Eiji home first, the boy smiled and told him he would be alright alone.

Reluctantly, Ibe got into the cab alone, which left Eiji more or less standing on the side of the road for a few minutes before taking off on foot.

The apartment is an hour away if he were to walk to it and about fifteen minutes by car. In a packed day like this with the sun still high over the horizon despite it nearing six in the evening, it’s probably going to take more than thirty minutes driving there and Eiji isn’t about to try and make conversation with someone for that long period of time. He much prefers taking his time outside. It _is_ early June, so the warmth of summer clings to his skin, forcing a sheen of sweat to the surface of his olive skin and making his tee stick to the part between his shoulder blades, but he doesn’t mind it.

He is used to it, anyway, having lived by the sea all his life where summers in Izumo were both extremely humid and hot.

It takes him back, honestly, the nostalgia a feeling he hasn’t felt in a long while. 

And he’s so lost in his thoughts, feet vacuously taking him down the route to Ibe’s apartment that he hardly notices when someone is calling his name from within a car, window lowered as he puts his head out, one hand braced against the wheel.

Eiji’s eyes snap towards him when he realizes people are staring at him and the driver who has his attention on him.

 _”Thank you,”_ Shorter says, opening the passenger door for him before beckoning him inside. “Honestly, I didn’t think you’d look over until you finally smacked into a telephone pole or something.”

Blinking, Eiji slides into the car, pulling the door close before strapping himself in. It’s a mechanical motion done in one fluid go. A sight that looks too off to be normal, and Shorter no doubt notes this.

“You okay?”

Eiji fixes his gaze on him again, this time staring for longer. “Your hair,” he comments randomly. The purple mohawk is gone, completely shaved away. What is left is a close-crop of hair all around Shorter’s skull, thinner at the sides, but nonetheless… empty. Eiji notes that it was a little rude of him to ignore Shorter’s question and instead mention the state of Shorter’s hair—or almost lack thereof—but the change is startling.

When Eiji first met him, his cut was a bold one that suited his whole sunshine-y demeanor—one that spoke of how his character was a fun one, but with it gone, Shorter looks less like he’s about to crack open a beer, throw some to his friends, and eat it with fried chicken and more like he’s going to pop open a bottle of champagne, pour it in one of those pretty fluted glasses, and tap it against the rim of his partner’s before cutting into a fancy plate of fancy food.

He looks refined. Rough but refined and more mature even though Eiji knows Shorter is probably the most responsible person he’s ever met in his life. 

Sliding his fingers across the crown of his head, Shorter nods. “Yeah, Nadia buzzed most of it off. It’ll be a lot easier to handle.”

“It looks nice.”

“Thanks.” After another moment, Shorter continues, “So, curious as to why I’ve come to pick you up in the middle of traffic?”

“I’m surprised you could find me,” Eiji says absentmindedly, elbow leaning against the half-lowered window, staring outside. “New York after-hours is a densely packed throng of people; it’s like getting lost in an ocean full of tiny fish with no sun above to tell you in which direction to swim. Kind of sad, really.”

Shorter stares at him from the corner of his eyes, squinting a little. _”Okay…_ nevermind what I want to do with you; are you feeling alright, Eiji? You seem a little… off.”

“Mm.”

“Is that a yes?”

“I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” Eiji says, “about a lot of things. Daydreaming.” He switches his line of sight back to Shorter and offers a small smile. “Sorry if I’m in somewhat of a daze.”

Shorter shakes his head. “No, you’re totally fine. Just making sure.”

Eiji doesn’t realize it until he’s here that Shorter has taken him away from his original route to a complex close to the agency. He pulls in before turning off the gas and leaning to the back seat to grab a few reusable grocery bags, depositing them gently in Eiji’s lap. “Avocado shrimp salad for dinner and pancakes for breakfast. Ash’s favorites; the recipe is in there if you’re unsure. Also—“ he fishes out a set of keys from his pocket, dropping it into Eiji’s hand. “Keys to Ash’s apartment; the number is taped to it if you forgot.”

Eiji is about to walk out of the car when he stops himself, flying back inside and slamming the door shut. “Why am I at Ash’s place?” 

“So now you’re asking some questions, finally out of your tiny little world.” Taking a deep breath, Shorter grips both of Eiji’s hands with his, palms nearly enveloping Eiji’s. “Look, Ash has this thing where he acts like he’s fine in front of a certain someone then goes around and complains and whines to someone else about his issues. He’s been doing this for the past month, Eiji, and I’m about to kneel over and throw up blood.” For a brief second, Eiji can almost see the crazed look in Shorter’s eyes. “So please do me a favor and keep him company tonight and tomorrow because if you don’t, I might accidentally shove him out the window of my penthouse next time he decides to climb in unannounced.”

Ash isn’t using the elevator like a normal person? Did he actually climb up all those stories bare-handed, or is Shorter not actually being literal with his words?

“In any case, I’m begging you to do something about him before I go mad.”

Shorter pulls his hands away and Eiji replaces the pressure by wrapping his fingers tightly around the bags Shorter presents to him. “I mean, do I have to stay the night?”

“He’s like a puppy. If you cuddle with him and tell him he’s a good boy, he’ll be easily placated; trust me. Or else he’ll bother you and continue to beg you with those damn doe eyes until you give in.”

Pursing his lips together, Eiji thinks for a moment before letting out a breath of air, nodding. “Okay. I told him I would talk to him anyway. It’s been some time already.”

“Oh god, _thank you._ ” Shorter sighs in relief.

Eiji nods with a smile before taking off.

Needless to say that he isn’t exactly ready for all of this, but if he doesn’t confront it all now, he wonders if he’ll ever be able to later. 

It doesn’t take him long to get to Ash’s door. It technically should’ve taken longer as Eiji took his sweet time walking up those few flights of stairs and perusing the complex, but time seemed to fast-forward quite a lot, cutting each minute in half.

He is about to knock on the door when he remembers the key Shorter gave him, inserting it in after a second of hesitation and pushing down on the door handle. 

Eiji doesn’t like his head in, instead placing himself right outside the threshold, a sliver of the studio apartment in view, though since the lights were off and the blinds closed, he can’t see much anyway. 

“Ash?” He says his name tentatively—softly—like it’s spun sugar melting onto his tongue.

When no one answers, Eiji finally steps in, albeit a little nervous, and shuts the door behind him. 

He’s tempted to flick on the lights but doesn’t in case something is wrong. 

Even the air is a bit stale, a musk that hasn’t been filtered out lingering. But now peering at the shadows in the studio, Eiji sees an unused kitchen and living area as well as the same gauzy curtain drawn across Ash’s makeshift bedroom. A shape shuffles behind the curtain, the outline barely discernible as it becomes larger. 

The figure moves to swipe away the curtains, other hand rubbing at his eyes, momentarily setting the gold-framed glasses askew on his nose.

 _“Ash,”_ Eiji repeats, this time with more concern as he leaves the grocery bags on the countertop and rushes to him.

His hands flutter around Ash’s blank face, at a loss for what to actually do. “Ash, are you okay?”

Leveling his gaze on Eiji, Ash drags his bare feet forward before falling onto Eiji. 

Or, rather it’s a glomp that seems more like he’s about to topple Eiji over and onto the floor. 

Surprised, Eiji’s arms automatically come around Ash to hold him up, foot going back one step to steady himself. Ash breathes out before taking a large breath in, burying his head into the crook of Eiji’s neck. The boy, despite appearing quite slim—perhaps thinner than Eiji when he is at his best—is heavier than presumed.

Ash’s arms tighten around Eiji, one encircling his lower back and the other around his shoulders. “Did Shorter send you over?”

“Mm. He gave me the keys,” Eiji says, patting his back. _Shorter is right; he_ is _a puppy. Kind of like Emi,_ he muses. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“I don’t,” Ash responds, voice muffled.

“Do you mind if I open the windows a bit and open the blinds?” Eiji asks, but he’s already rotating in Ash’s arms before shuffling towards the large window to his right. Ash moves along with him, arms lowering to hold him tightly around his waist.

Eiji doesn’t continue the conversation, wordlessly padding over to the kitchen, albeit with a little difficulty with the extra weight behind him.

The salad doesn’t take long at all, but by the time he’s done, he’s a somewhat overheated from Ash sticking so close to him, the back of his tee which was already damp from the warm weather now sticking to his skin.

When he sets the two bowls onto the table, Eiji lets out a small sigh, twisting in Ash’s arms again. He raises his eyes, ready to ask him to eat dinner first before doing anything else, but the look Ash gives him makes the words die at his throat.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!~ ♡
> 
> They've all suffered much, and I didn't have any reason to drag/lengthen the scene between Ash/Eiji/Golzine, so there you have it! (Though I did pull a bit of an um... _deus ex machina_ with Blanca so quickly saving Ash and Eiji. I like to think of him as someone who is super resourceful and strong, though. With Golzine at the end of his rope, it wouldn’t be too difficult for him to end it all... but, nevertheless, sorry if that particular scene didn’t live up to your expectations or if it was too rushed! I’m still a complete rookie when it comes to plot resolution.)
> 
> This fic came out to be a bit shorter than I was expecting (tbh, idk why I'm surprised because I never plan stuff out and end up with some unexpected product anyway), but hopefully, it still turned out to be alright. (: Next chapter will be the last (I think), but I'll be writing an epilogue for Sing/Yue as well as one for Ash/Eiji and maybe some extras because I'm one of those people who have a hard time letting go of a project lol. 
> 
> Again, thank you so much for reading and for giving this fic a chance! It's my first time writing one and my first time using this platform, and I must say, it gave me the break I needed from writing original fic.
> 
> ♡♡♡♡♡


	16. (End)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"Forever."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really meant to publish this chapter weeks ago, but uni really hit me hard. (This chapter is almost twice as long as my other ones, so hopefully that makes up for the long wait—sorry!)

Eiji is trembling.

Well, trembling is describing the situation lightly. He’s _quaking_ like the space around him is about to experience an earthquake with a magnitude of nine point five. The tremors travel from the tips of his fingers down to his toes, and it doesn’t help that Ash has him backed up against the wall, mere millimeters between them, and is gazing at him with a full-on intensity that makes it feel like it’s suddenly thirty-nine degrees Celsius. And the fact that Eiji is now thinking in _numbers_ probably means he’s going to die soon. Or, at least, he’s convinced he’s going to at the rate this is going.

When Ash said he’d continue the conversation with him the last time they met, he didn’t know it was going to continue under _this_ kind of circumstance.

“U-um, shouldn’t you eat what I made before it gets too late?” Eiji is having a hard time looking at him in the eye, glancing away for a few seconds before his eyes flicker back. 

Ever since the whole situation with Golzine went down a month ago, he hasn’t seen Ash besides the one visit he paid him at the hospital. Apparently, he was supposed to see his doctor for a follow-up, but he never went. While Ibe or Max could’ve hauled him over themselves, their heads swiveled to look at Eiji when Ibe suggested one of them pay Ash a visit some mornings ago and maybe convince him that young as he is, he isn’t exactly immune to infection and other medical problems that naturally come with post-surgery. 

They were all surprised when Eiji downright refused before continuing his breakfast, throwing these glances at one another that clearly said: _but doesn’t he like Ash?_ To which, in his mind, Eiji replied with, _believe me, I do._

But there is this thing called confrontation and other… _feelings_ Eiji has been avoiding since he last saw Ash a few weeks ago. 

Because he _knew_ he was going to end up in this sort of position. 

Ash is the kind of person with an odd sense of expression. He never shies away from expressing his feelings to someone in public, but the moment he is alone with said person, he’s immediately onto them. Especially when he’s already gotten over the initial bout of nervousness and panic at the realization of potentially garnering feelings for someone.

If not for Shorter, Eiji probably would have put off this entire meeting for another week or so.

“That can wait.”

“No, eating is important.“

Ash raises a brow. “Says the guy who lost nearly thirty pounds prior to coming to New York, got sick a few times for neglecting his health, and fainted because he forgot what food and sleep was.”

Eiji grapples for excuses, the saucy remarks he would typically make dry on his tongue. He wants to brush Ash off with a straight face, sit down, and eat the shrimp salad, but the only thing that comes to his brain is static. A lie tumbles out of his mouth before he can stifle it. “Actually, I just remembered Ibe wanted me home early—”

“I can call him later that you’re staying the night and that I’ll take you to the agency in the morning.”

“It’s fine, I don’t want to impose—”

“You won’t be.”

Eiji’s mouth opens, then shuts. His eyes dart away.

If there is one trait of Ash’s that Eiji found both intolerable and endearing, it is how pushy he can be. Not that Ash is the type to seriously force someone to do something or agree to something they definitely don’t want to do but that he knows when to edge in on someone, make it difficult for them to escape. 

At times, it could be for trivial things such as wanting Eiji to feed him something he is cooking at the moment or taking him out to accompany him when they both have nothing to do that day, but things that directly deals with emotional territory are ones Eiji likes to avoid like the plague.

 _”Ei-chan,”_ Ash almost whines. “You’ve been super elusive lately, I can’t even say hi to you before you disappear to god knows where.” He starts to inch closer, but Eiji doesn’t let him.

Shielding his face from view, Eiji’s other arm shoots out, hand firm against Ash’s chest. _Nope. Nooope. We are_ not _doing this._

But Ash just takes it with his free hand, probably barely even making an effort when he steps forward to lessen the already narrow gap between them. 

Eiji can’t see, but he definitely _feels_ it when Ash brings his hand up this his mouth, brushing his lips across Eiji’s knuckles before pulling Eiji’s hand flat up running his closed lips along the length of his ring finger. 

Eiji sucks in a breath of air the same time a surprised gasp reaches his ears, face burning even more from the sudden shivers that run down his back and make him bite down hard on his bottom lip. It shouldn’t feel that good. He’s convinced it shouldn’t.

 _“Ash,”_ he breathes, so soft he doesn’t think anyone can hear it.

His heart thunders in ears.

Fingers sliding underneath the sleeve of Eiji’s button-down, Ash presses a kiss at his inner wrist, teeth catching at the hem of the fabric, and Eiji nearly jumps out of his skin when the same shivers travel down the same pathway, nerves lighting up like they’ve been dipped in oil and lit on fire. 

He feels himself being pulled forward a few centimeters, inadvertently stepping up against Ash. But his shoulders remain pressed against the cold wall. 

Taking Eiji’s other hand away from his face, Ash dips down, forcing Eiji to make eye-contact with him. “Do you want me to stop?”

The bottom of Eiji’s lip throbs as hard as the pulsating mess within him. When he licks it, he tastes metal. “Ash,” he manages to squeak out, “do you…” like me? He internally shakes his head, trying again, “Are you okay with me?”

Ash’s face blanks for several long moments before he bursts out laughing, actually backing away as he bends over, wheezing. _“Oh my god,_ are you serious? Are you fucking kidding me? Oh my _god.”_

Eiji’s heart stops, and for that split second, he thinks it’s a joke. That this is a joke, and the feelings he has towards Ash since the moment they went to the ocean was a joke all along.

He feels everything crashing against him, that overwhelming feeling welling up in his soul, drowning it, undoing the damn he has so carefully set up. It happens so quickly that he doesn’t even have the chance to reel his emotions back in when he realizes it’s all just a misunderstanding.

And then his body is moving on its own, shoving Ash down onto his bed and climbing up on top of him, uncaring when he accidentally knees him in the stomach in the process, eliciting an uncharacteristic yelp from Ash.

Eiji’s vision blurs, fingers curling into the white sheets. He’s about to say something when his throat constricts, and the first tear falls and plops right on top of Ash’s cheek. 

Ash is stunned, blond hair splayed across the mattress, blinking back at Eiji as he wipes the teardrop off his face and stares at the moisture smeared across his fingers. “What—“

“I’m angry,” Eiji says, voice wobbling. “You _know_ I hate it when you don’t answer seriously. And after everything that I’ve done, I’ve thought that… that—I don’t know—in the end, you may have changed your mind about me. You have no idea how-how _scared_ I’ve been these weeks, how much I’ve held myself back from visiting, because-because I don’t even know if I have the right to _look_ at you.”

He still feels incredibly horrible for neglecting how difficult it must have been for Ash to open up to him all these months, how it must have been so hard for him to confide in someone who was never willing to divulge even just a silver of his past. Eiji still hasn’t sat down and talked to Ash even though Ash has already indirectly expressed countless times that he wants to know the underlying reason as to why Eiji came to New York or why he sometimes got panic attacks.

That, mixed with the bundle of nerves still at Eiji’s stomach, his burning heart, and the slight confusion surrounding this whole ordeal makes for a horrible combination.

“Wait.“ Ash’s eyes widen a fraction more. “Fuck, wait a sec, I promise I wasn’t making fun of you or anything; I was just surprised since what I told you back at that manor should’ve been clear enough to realize how I feel—“

Face breaking, Eiji sits back onto Ash’s lap, pulling his sleeves down over the palms of his hands and dragging them across his eyes, hiccups escaping his lips when the sobs he has been suppressing start rising up his throat.

He’s never broken down like this to someone—not to Ibe or even his sister, but he’s decided he doesn’t like it.

“—oh god, I’m _so_ sorry—“

Even while he’s about to bawl his eyes out, Eiji still has the capacity to be completely mortified by his actions, shakily half-turning in a mess of movements, one hand sinking into the mattress as he shifts back. Eiji is about to climb off the bed and promptly leave when Ash grabs him and presses Eiji against him.

“I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry, I’m so sorry,” Ash repeats, rubbing Eiji’s back. “I didn’t mean it like that.” His heart his pounding, perhaps even quicker than Eiji’s.

They’re both very afraid. Scared of confirming the thoughts in their head and the feelings in their heart. 

Fingers digging into Ash’s shoulders, he squeezes his eyes shut and presses his lips together, bottom lip stinging from its previous wound. He holds his breath for a few seconds before letting it out, but it’s still quivering at the edges, catching in his throat every few moments when a small hiccup pushes its way past without permission. 

His whole body is tense for a good couple of minutes. Then, it relaxes, melting against Ash, the small sobs residing. 

He’s the first one to pull back after several minutes, taking in a shaky breath of air. Ash swipes his thumbs across his closed eyes and lashes, wiping away the remaining tears.

“I,” he starts slowly, “think it’s safe to say now that although I acted like a complete asshole and didn’t give you a serious yes or no to your question, I am _serious.”_ He pauses, earnest. “About you. And I don’t just _like_ you, Eiji—this isn’t some kind of lame summer fling that ends quicker than it started, but something I think will persist.”

Letting out a puff of air, Eiji looks up, the rims of his eyes already raw from crying, puffy and burning from wiping the tears away as roughly as he did. He sniffles, and Ash looks guilty, pretty face drawn.

Eiji takes it in both hands, perhaps squeezing a little too hard when Ash’s lips pucker together like a fish’s. 

Then he kisses him for the first time, eyes falling closed like a curtain at the end of a play. 

It’s not anything special—just his own lips pressing against the curve of Ash’s but it still makes those telltale butterflies in Eiji’s stomach flutter.

Ash just stares straight at him, jade irises surrounded by white, and the fact he still has the face of a fish kind of makes Eiji smile a bit even though he just near-bawled his eyes out. But it’s good that he feels this way. It’s good that he feels he can be this transparent with someone because this has never happened before. Not in a level as deeply intimate as the one he has with someone he has just met a few months ago. 

“You’ve been saying you’re sorry too many times as of late; I should be the one apologizing,” Eiji says softly, voice hoarse, “for many things. Not you who has already done so countless times.”

A pink flush has settled across Ash’s cheeks, curling over to the tips of his ears. Gripping Eiji’s hips, he leans in like he wants to steal a kiss, but stops prematurely when their breaths mix. “Such as…?” 

“Just now, causing you to feel guilty when none of the fault lies with you.”

“And?”

The kind of look Ash is giving him, all wide-eyed and childlike, hopelessly attentive as if Eiji is telling him the most arresting bedtime story makes his heart melt a little.

“Being too reserved and non-committal.” When Ash doesn’t reply, Eiji continues, eyes searching the ones in front of him. “But… I never want to leave you again, Ash.” He feels a little light-headed, heart pounding in his chest. “Will you stay with me?”

He’s been so distracted by what he is feeling that he never realized when Ash started to press him flush against him, a haze surrounding his countenance, the pink flush on his face deepening to a rose. It’s like seeing dawn rise over the horizon, the cold night fading to day. 

Eiji feels the heat envelop them both.

_”Forever.”_

-

When Ash and Eiji walk in, it’s like they owe everyone an explanation.

Dozens of pairs of eyes swivel to their direction, Max and Ibe both appearing especially concerned. 

Eiji assumes Ash didn’t actually let Ibe respond before setting his phone aside. He let him _know_ Eiji wouldn’t be going back to his apartment that night, but he hadn’t been specific enough, hence the nervous energy around Ibe who probably called Max that following morning to rant about how concerned he was for the both of them. They’re also half an hour late because of how much Ash hates waking up too early in the morning, which doesn’t really help take the suspicions arising from the crowd.

Not that anything too… _much_ really happened, but Eiji knows that no one is going to believe them anyway. 

He glances at Ash who doesn’t look bothered at the scene in front of him at all, casually strolling into a separate room where Nadia is waiting to get ready for his shoot. 

As he disappears behind the door, Eiji approaches Ibe with a small smile, brushing the ends of his long fringe behind his ears and off his forehead. It’s gotten considerably long ever since he stopped cutting it when arriving at New York, the dark locks curling slightly at the nape of his neck, curlier and thicker near his ears. He’s not used to showing his forehead, but having his hair hang over his eyes constantly was a pain. 

Ibe scans Eiji’s entire person as if checking for anything wrong with him before touching his shoulder gently and closing the wide space between them so he can talk more privately with him. “Are you okay? Do you feel fine? Does it hurt anywhere?”

The questions are obviously directed towards a certain activity, but Eiji doesn’t feel as flustered as he thought he would. He just shakes his head, maintaining the easy smile on his face. “I’m well, Ibe-san.”

Ibe presses his lips together, definitely not wanting to let the matter go, but he does so anyway. “You know you can let me know if you have anything you want to talk about, right, Ei-chan?”

“Of course, Ibe-san.” Eiji’s smile widens. “I’m thankful to you for going so far as to befriend me and bring me to New York as a mentor. Without you, I’m unsure of whether I could have recovered so fast.”

Blinking in surprise, Ibe looks away, scratching the back of his neck. “I only… want you to be happy, Ei-chan. I know what it feels like to be at the lowest possible point in your life, and if it was not for those who were willing to pull me up and carry me through it all, I would not be standing here today.”

“Mm, tell me about it someday if you’re willing,” Eiji says. “I wouldn’t mind sitting down for some tea and unpacking some of the baggage we both have left over after this trip.”

Ibe can’t help but return the warm smile. “Please remind me to, Ei-chan.” He laughs softly. “After all, I am getting a little old, forgetting some things here and there.”

“We all do, no matter the age.”

 _“Hey—“_ A hand clamps over Eiji’s shoulder and he immediately stiffens, turning slightly to look at the person behind him. The back of his neck prickles, a shiver running up from the base of his spine to between his shoulder blades as Max fixes imploring eyes onto him, the dark circles under them stamped so deeply that it almost seems like he got into a fight the night before. “Eiji, I need you to be a sub. The model collaborating with us got into a minor accident and their agent doesn’t want them coming in today.”

His exhale stops midway. “Again? You don’t have anyone else who fits the description?”

“Actually…” Max scratches his cheek with a finger, looking extremely helpless. “After that thing with Ash and his old agency got published, we’ve been short on hands. Many of our models aren’t signed in under Blanca; their contracts are with their mother agency, and since there are still rumors floating around about how we might have been cooperating under Golzine’s illegal sex ring, most of them took off. There has been quite a few staff who quit too; Charlie has been working hard finding adequate people to fill in.” He sighs deeply, and it sounds like it’s going to be his last breath. “To be honest, I had an inkling that this would happen, but I didn’t know it would come at us so fast. Blanca must be enjoying himself laughing at us someplace relaxing, drinking martinis underneath the shade of a palm tree or something, _damn him.”_

Eiji resigns himself to the task, placing a reassuring hand on Max’s shoulder. “It’s fine, really. If I’m good enough and you need me for a couple of other shoots, I wouldn’t mind subbing in for those either. Given that the client doesn’t mind either. So, is this solo or am I with someone?”

Max cracks a little. He glances over Eiji’s shoulder at Ibe. “W-with Ash…”

“Oh, okay.”

“‘Okay’?” Max repeats, frozen. “You’re okay with this arrangement?”

Nodding, Eiji shrugs nonchalantly. The tension he feels slowly dissipates; he thought he might have to drag someone down as a complete novice or make a fool out of himself trying to model when he’s only tried it once before. “Of course, why not? It’s Ash. I’ve done it with him already.”

Ibe audibly gasps behind him. “Ei-chan!”

Led on by Ibe’s exclamation, Max is at a loss for words, a flush staining his features. It’s bright pink against the corners of his hazy blue eyes.

“Hey, Ei-chan.” An arm slings across his shoulders, steering him away from the scene. “These two grown-ass men are misunderstanding something.” Ash glances at both of them, brows raised as the grin on his face widens. “Let’s get you ready; Nadia doesn’t like waiting forever.”

Eiji allows Ash to lead him away. His mind is blank for a few seconds before it dawns on him. “They’re thinking we did _that,_ aren’t they?” 

“Mm-hm.”

Shrugging Ash’s shoulder off, Eiji whirls around. “And you didn’t let me clear up the misunderstanding?” 

Ash gives him a look. “Do you really think they’re going to believe you if you said you didn’t? If you already haven’t noticed, everyone thinks something happened between us last night.”

“I mean, I _did,_ and Ibe already tried asking about it,” Eiji says. “But we only kissed and held each other, so it wasn’t much.”

The corners of Ash’s lips twitch, his grin faltering. But he regains his composure in a fraction of a second, a brow cocked up as he tips his head down, lips slanting across Eiji’s. It’s a breath of a kiss, and Eiji can barely feel it, but the roar of his blood rushing to his face, his eyes wide makes it seem like it was more.

He presses a hand against Ash’s chest, shrinking back almost immediately.

“Seriously, though.” Ash side-steps and enters the room Nadia is waiting for Eiji in. “I wonder what I have to do to you to make you reclaim those words you just said.”

Not daring to lift his head and assess everyone’s reaction to the scene, Eiji hurries inside the room and closes the door behind him. 

Nadia almost rolls her eyes. “Jeez, Ash. Give him a break, will you?”

Pouting, Ash refuses to turn around or apologize, shoulders set into a tense line. 

_”He’s like a puppy. If you cuddle with him and tell him he’s a good boy, he’ll be easily placated.”_

Eiji presses his lips together. It’s definitely not the right time for Ash to be annoyed at him since they’re also running on others’ times. And, to be fair, even if Ash isn’t actually that angry, it was still the words Eiji said that made him like this. 

He doesn’t usually like conflict and creating it is even more of a thing he doesn’t ever do. But he’s not exactly too sensitive either with people he’s familiar with, and his unguarded thoughts could definitely rub off someone the wrong way. Ash is the type of person who acts as if nothing gets to him, but Eiji knows his heart is somewhat like a maiden’s. Or, it _is_ probably exactly like one.

“Ash,” Eiji starts, hands at his sides as he approaches him. “I’m kind of… used to the platonic holding thing that I suppose isn’t that common amongst the people you know, but when I said that kissing and cuddling wasn’t a big deal, I meant that if it happened with people other than you, I wouldn’t feel anything.” He stops before Ash holdings his breath before wrapping his arms around him affectionately, mouth coming dangerously close to Ash’s ear. “If it’s _you,”_ Eiji murmurs, “then that’s another issue.” 

Taking a step back, Eiji waits for a moment. The tips of Ash’s ear are red, but when he turns around, he otherwise seems unperturbed. 

Eiji lets out a puff of air. “In other words, I’m sorry, okay? So don’t be angry anymore; I know a bad mood makes work difficult for you and the crew.” 

Ash’s jade eyes are unwavering. “Nadia, can you step out of the room for a sec?” 

“Nope.” Dragging a stool over from the makeup table, Nadia puts her hands on Eiji’s shoulders before pushing him down on top of it and lugging him back over to her workspace. “Leave before I tell Alex to make you. I’m not repainting your face for you.” 

“Ple—”

Cupping her hands together, Nadia calls out Alex’s name. The moment she does, the door slams open and Eiji watches wordlessly as Ash is lugged out of the room like a literal piece of luggage.

Eiji switches his line of sight back onto Nadia. “Um—”

“And you,” she says, tapping excess powder off a brush. “Don’t provoke him. He’s aggressive and impatient—impulsive, too, when he’s not using his brain, and that’s a dangerous combination, got that?” 

It’s like he’s getting scolded by his mother, and it makes him shut up at once, but briefly before he lets out a short, low response. “Yes.”

“It’s for your own good, and also for future reference so you don’t do unnecessary things during inopportune times.” She makes a face, sighing, before regaining herself. “We’re spread thinly enough even when some of the clients we’ve worked with before are backing away temporarily before everyone is done gossiping about that Dino Golzine and Ash. Wasting time isn’t on the agenda today.” 

Eiji starts to nod, but Nadia holds his head still, the pad of her finger positioned on his chin. 

“Stay still, please. I’ve got a few others to take care of after this and a few preparations for next week’s work.”

Eiji wants to apologize and ask Nadia if there is anything he could possibly do to lessen the amount of work she has to do but opts for the silence she requested.

When she is done, she deposits a black button-down and formal trousers before motioning to the curtain on the other side of the room. Once Eiji is finished changing, she fixes his shirt, popping open the first few buttons and smoothing over any noticeable wrinkles. 

Eiji hasn’t taken a single peek at himself in the mirror ever since Nadia started working on his hair and makeup, but the glance he sends over before leaving the room makes him blink for a moment and wonder who the heck he’s actually staring at. 

A hand at the center of his back makes him jump, but he realizes it’s only Nadia forcing him out the door and into the studio. 

“What?” She raises a brow. “Thought you were going to be the angel?”

Usually, Eiji would manage to stutter something out, but he can’t even speak this time. 

“Based on your little interaction with Ash earlier, I’m pretty sure you’ll be fine with getting into character for the shoot.” She pauses. “Besides, I’m pretty sure your mentor over there is more nervous than you are.”

She’s right. Before he came out, Ibe was busy taking pictures of Ash but stopped abruptly when he caught a glimpse of Eiji. He’s snapped out of his minor deviation when Eiji approaches him, eyeing the screen where all of Ibe’s shots are being uploaded into. 

In most of the photographs, Ash is standing against a white background without a single prop, but now he’s sitting in front of a table, a reflector underneath him as he props his elbows up and positions his hands in ways that make him look even more delicate than he already does. 

Eiji hadn’t exactly noticed before, but Ash’s hair looks fluffier than usual, the end of his fringe styled into a loss curl that just barely grazes across his cheek. His eyes are startlingly green, makeup seemingly minimal but dewy and glowy. 

_Like a literal angel._

A crew member holds a few products in a small tray by the side, and Eiji notes that it’s the same brand Nadia used on him just a few minutes ago. 

“Okay,” Ibe calls out, giving Ash a tiny thumbs-up. He turns to Eiji. “Ei-chan, the 18-135mm.” 

Changing the lens for Ibe, Eiji looks up. “We’re filming?” 

“Yes.” 

He blinks.

“I didn’t know that.”

“Ah, I was reviewing everything the night before,” Ibe explains. “I forgot to tell you the client asked for photos as well as a short clip they can use for their advertisements.”

“Oh.” Well, it wouldn’t have really been an issue if Eiji wasn’t subbing in for someone, but now that he is, his confidence level plummets a little. It’s one thing to be in stills, but when you’re moving, everything gets caught on camera. 

“No worries, Ei-chan, the editor is very good, and they’ll be a lot of cuts. It’s a very short ad—only about thirty to forty-five seconds.”

“Okay.” He says that, but he’s still scared nonetheless, the smile on his face tensing into a straight line as he steps back and watches Ibe’s direction.

During times like these, Eiji can’t help but wonder about Ibe’s background. He’s experienced—anyone can see that. Ibe, despite looking like the normal middle-aged Japanese man, is probably more of an enigma than Ash. While he had the experience that could get him hired in plenty of places in Japan and outside the country, he still ran that small studio in Kyoto, living a modest life in the comfort of home. 

By the time he’s finished daydreaming, Ash is by his side, eyes almost boring into him. Startled out of his thoughts, Eiji feels a quick smile come onto his face. “H-hi.” 

“Hi to you too, _Ei-chan,”_ Ash says, stifling laughter. He squeezes Eiji’s shoulder, then fixes the few wrinkles he made before motioning to the set where a few crew members are just now switching the backdrop, exchanging the white paper curtain for a dark one. “You’ll do fine. I know, because you were amazing last time despite never having modeled before. It’s not a runway; just a room full of people you’re familiar with.”

“Mm.”

“You went over the concept already?” 

“The contrast between dark and light for a cosmetic company’s new line.” 

“So just pretend your soul is the darkest shade of black and that you’re some hot demon who can’t be bothered with anyone else. Act aloof, and you’ll be fine,” Ash says.

“You say it like it’s so easy,” Eiji mutters, mostly to himself. “But it’s not.”

“Yeah, like that.” Ash nods, a grin spreading across his face. “With that attitude. Like you’re low-key annoyed but you have to compose yourself just enough to get work done.”

Eiji scrunches up his face. 

“Cold, not constipated.”

Eiji smacks him before walking over to the set. 

If the client wanted him to act distant and unapproachable, he could do that. His face falls slack, visage wiped of all emotion. He leans his head down, fringe falling into his eyes. 

The room falls silent before Ibe lets out a small affirmation in Japanese and continues directing Eiji’s movements. For some of the stills, he had to hold a product up to his face at a certain angle and way or pretend to apply it to his face somewhere, but the whole thing isn’t too horrible. But then again, since Eiji almost always went into things with low expectations, everything always ended better than he thought. 

Ash joins him for a few more shots seated next to him before the crew carries the table away and extends the paper curtain all the way to the floor, rolling it all the way out. Ibe sits down for a good ten minutes, Max behind them as they scroll through all the photographs, pointing at a few a discussing things amongst themselves. 

“Tired?” 

Eiji fights to urge to push his bangs back again. He’s already done it a couple of times during the shoot, but Nadia had already touched up on his hair and makeup and advised him not to give her more work than necessary. 

“This is taking a lot longer than the first one I did.”

“Oh, that perfume campaign? That’s because they only needed one photo.”

“I don’t know how some models are comfortable with people touching them and staring at them all day long,” Eiji mutters, blinking his eyes open. He stretches them open wide, but they still burn from exhaustion. He feels a little hot, too, a thread of thought wondering if the flush he feels on his natural skin is bleeding through the makeup. “I can barely do it. It’s too intrusive.”

“Well, you get used to it. Slowly.” 

“I want to sleep.”

“It’s only three in the afternoon, Ei-chan.”

“Doesn’t matter,” Eiji says.

“Alrighty, then.” A corner of Ash’s lip quirks up. “Should we get this last thing finished real quick?” 

“Mm.”

Ash sits down onto the paper curtain on the floor before lowering himself down, one elbow propping himself up as he beckons Eiji over.

Eiji complies and doesn’t even protest when Ash pulls him down over him. After maneuvering their limbs into a way that satisfies him, Ash calls for Ibe, who is shocked for a moment before taking the final shot.

And Eiji can barely remember what happened after that at all.

-

Eiji wakes up to aching limbs and shivers. He feels strangely cold and instinctively curls up on his side, pulling the blanket that is tucked around his body up higher over his shoulders, almost covering his entire face with it. He’s about to close his eyes again when he realizes the disconnection of his memory. Pausing, he holds his breath for several moments before sitting up.

He’s in Ash’s apartment, sleeping in Ash’s bed, and when he looks down, he’s still dressed in the same clothes he should’ve returned to Nadia once he was done with that afternoon shoot. 

“Ash?” His voice comes out broken and strained, so he swallows once before trying again. “Hey, Ash?” 

The curtain slides open. Ash is holding a tupperware full of what looks like congee. 

When he offers it to Eiji, Eiji doesn’t even question where he got it from, instead accepting it readily and setting it down in his lap. His body is still cold so he scoots all the way back against the fluffy pillows and slides down a bit. It’s something he would never do when talking to the host of the place he is staying at, but he’s comfortable enough in Ash’s place not to honor his usual practices. 

“Did I fall asleep?” 

“Yup.” 

Eiji presses his lips together. “In the middle of the shoot?” 

Plopping down at the foot of the bed, Ash lays back, staring up at the ceiling. He lets out a puff of air. “Kinda. We were just about done when you basically fell on top of me.” A grin spreads across his face as he turns his head to regard Eiji. “It was really cute, honestly. You had this dazed yet unreadable look on your face that was—by the way—the perfect expression for that cut, and I guess you couldn’t hold yourself up anymore and collapsed.” He stops for a moment. “Well, _that_ , and you were also burning up, so your fever must have caused some of those symptoms of drowsiness.”

Eiji frowns, staring at the congee resting on top of the blankets before actually trying a spoonful. “I’ve never gotten so sick so frequently before.” 

“Well, everyone’s saying it’s stress.”

“Mm, maybe.” Eiji eats another spoonful. “Did Shorter make this?” 

“Yeah. He must’ve heard about you from Nadia.” 

Silence resumes, and Eiji focuses on finishing the rest of the congee, not bothering to look up at Ash until he’s nearly done, the spoon halfway to his lips. 

Ash has propped himself up on one elbow and is staring at Eiji, his blond hair falling into his eyes like some cliché heartthrob scene in some shoujo manga. And it works, because Eiji’s heart does squeeze a little bit as his eyes flicker away, heat layering on top of his already flushed cheeks. 

Shoving the last bit of congee in his mouth, Eiji holds the empty tupperware out to Ash, the other hand already grasping at the duvet in order to slip out of the bed. “Could you wash this for me, please? I’m going to take a shower.” 

The grin on Ash’s face widens as he leans over to take the tupperware out of Eiji’s hand, fingers purposefully sliding across Eiji’s. When he speaks, his voice is saccharine sweet, syllables dragging into the next. “Sure thing, Ei-chan. You can wear whatever you want from the closet.” 

After ungracefully detangling himself from the bed, Eiji grabs a random set of pajamas before low-key running into the bathroom, shutting the dorm firmly behind him. 

He’s burning, but the water streaming down onto him clears his mind a little. 

Enough to give him the willpower to step outside, cheeks still freshly flushed from the heat of the lukewarm water, heart strongly present in his chest yet strangely fluttery at the same time. It’s a feeling Eiji can’t form into words.

Ash is lounging back against the pillows wedged against his back and the wall, thumbing through some book Eiji can’t catch a glimpse of the title of. When he sees Eiji, he leans down to set it on the floor before patting the space next to him. He disappears into the bathroom Eiji came out of only to return with a hairdryer in hand, plugging it in and turning his attention into Eiji. 

“I haven’t used this thing in a while, but it should work.”

His comment is casual, almost _too_ mundane when Eiji is still sensitive about how he acted prior to his largely vain attempt in clearing his head and making himself feel better. The fact that the whole upper half of his face is still somewhat congested and his body is now rapidly heating up from the fever doesn’t really help.

Without warning, Ash starts to gently comb his fingers through Eiji’s damp hair, the hairdryer blasting warm air into the thick, unruly locks.

Eiji flinches at first, his whole body tensing, but the initial antsy feeling he had sitting low in his stomach wears off as he leans back a bit, welcoming the warmth despite the stuffy heat of his skin. Ash scoots forward to separate Eiji’s hair into loose sections to dry.

Eiji is left sitting cross-legged in Ash’s bed once his hair is more or less dry, watching as Ash stores the hairdryer back into the linen closet in the bathroom. 

He is left sitting in perhaps the most comfortable position he’s ever been in despite his temperature being higher than normal, the warmth from his fever and the hairdryer staining his cheeks a deeper red. Eiji also feels a little out-of-it still, mind in a daze, but doesn’t even attempt to untangle himself from it.

To him, these past few days have been somewhat incoherent. He’s being pulled—of course not physically, but theoretically in feeling—his heartstrings taut but showing no signs of loosening or tearing. 

He wonders if it’s possible for it to tear, and the thought of it makes him lose his breath a little as he swallows, looking up to the figure that is approaching him. _“Ash—”_

“Why are you looking at me so seriously like that?” Ash lifts half of the sheets up, beckoning Eiji lay down. “Sick people shouldn’t think too hard; stress feeds the bad things in your body.” 

“But I—”

“In the morning, okay?”

Eiji doesn’t move, still in his cross-legged position with his head bowed, eyes lowered in thought. It can’t be later than six in the evening, and yet, Ash is suggesting they go to sleep. When his eyes swivel up, he notices how Ash purposely avoids his gaze.

Letting out a small puff of air, Eiji complies, crawling over under the sheets. Ash makes a half-circle around the bed before laying down on the opposite side, on top of the blankets. 

It’s summer, so the light still comes in from the kitchen and living area, diffusing in hazy streaks through the diving curtain, leaving traces of sunlight over the bed and across their figures. Eiji can’t help but follow them slowly, eyes traveling from the walls over his blanket-clad body and over to Ash who is staring up at the ceiling. 

“You’re nervous,” he states straightforwardly, turning to face him. “Are you afraid of what I was going to say?”

Ash doesn’t show any sign of responding at first, but his chest falls once and rises as he audibly sucks in a breath of air. “You looked like you were about to say something I don’t think I would’ve liked to listen to.”

Eiji pauses. “Perhaps.”

Silence resumed between them, but Eiji doesn’t let it swallow them whole.

“But I think it’s time I told you why I came to New York in the first place.” Eiji glances at Ash whose attention is now on him. “To say the least… Japan was suffocating, and I think if I had stayed there for any longer, it would’ve taken all the breath from me.”

“In what way?” Shifting on his side, Ash uses his arm as a pillow. His voice is velvet soft, so low it barely comes out as a whisper. Eiji’s breathing stops for a moment before he finds himself blinking away, reorienting himself. 

“You know that feeling when you’re suddenly hyper-aware of everything? The way people look at you, how their gazes night linger, the kinds of things they must be thinking? You feel like you’re in some glass case stripped down of everything for people to see plainly, vulnerabilities bared. It’s more than uncomfortable— _beyond_ humiliating. And the more you think about it, the more it gets to you.

“Even if they’re not even thinking much despite the rumors and your own paranoia, the way you view the world is a looking glass. What matters is how _you_ believe they think of you, not how they _really_ think. I couldn’t handle it anymore, so I withdrew from school.” Eiji’s whole face is heated, his body like a furnace underneath the sheets, but he doesn’t move to fling them off.

“But, this time, the rumors weren’t wrong. What happened had _happened._ The only issue was that I wished it was a meaningless made-up rumor—the way it’s usually defined. Because the fact that someone who I trusted went that _far_ to show me how angry and hurt she was took away a lot of the things I thought I had to have.” Sucking in a breath of air, Eiji’s brows come together. “I think the worst thing is that she never really meant for the whole thing to actually happen. But it did nonetheless, and I hated myself for a long while because of it. I hated myself for being so oblivious about her feelings toward me, regardless of whether I reciprocated it. I just wish she would’ve come and talk to me rather than taking it as far as she did. But who am I kidding—“ Eiji breaks off for a moment, suddenly afraid to look anywhere else but the blank ceiling above. 

He’s somewhat aware where all of this is going but also completely clueless that in the face of illness and hurt, his foundations don’t hold anymore and delirium starts consuming his soul. “Maybe I should have done something first myself. I should’ve gone to her myself rather than _waiting—“_

 _”Eiji._ Ash is gripping one of his shoulders, putting just enough pressure so Eiji can feel it. 

Eyes burning, Eiji abruptly sits up, leaning over, his long fringe hanging over his eyes, tips of it brushing against his nose. He didn’t realize it, but his heart is pounding through his chest, and now he’s far from the calm he started out as. He’s aware the majority of what he just said probably didn’t make much sense, not that he can even recollect his words enough to give Ash a coherent picture of what exactly came to pass anymore.

 _I’m a_ mess.

Beside him, Ash follows his movements. The side of Eiji’s body nearest to Ash prickles.

“Eiji,” Ash repeats, and his name is all he says.

A shuddering breath of air escapes Eiji’s lungs as he fixes pulsing eyes on the worried boy beside him. “Is it so wrong that I don’t feel anything for girls? Or that, despite having nothing wrong with me, being unable to protect myself when someone is pushing me down and forcing himself between my legs?”

The look on Ash’s face is incomprehensible.

Eiji‘s eyes waver. “Is it?” He whispers.

“No. No, of course not.” Ash balls his hands into fists as he blinks once. Twice, then squeezes his eyes shut, jaw clenching, before unraveling his tense muscles. “There’s nothing wrong with you at all.”

“Oh, okay,” Eiji says numbly. He doesn’t feel relieved. He thought he would, once it came out, but, for some reason, he just feels the pressure of it all build up even higher inside, pressing up against his heart. He bites his bottom lip, chewing it open, and sniffles. And then he hunches over even more, shaking forearms braced against the top of the blanket as he presses his forehead against the smooth material and sobs.

It’s a quiet one that starts so low from the back of his throat and comes out so forcefully and so unexpectedly that it leaves him gasping, tears immediately falling from his eyes. 

The mattress suddenly lightens before a Eiji feels a weight in front of him, causing his curled body to slide forward a bit. Arms envelop him, the sound of a panicked voice above him, words blending together. 

“Did I say something wrong, Eiji? Please tell me what’s wrong, because I don’t know what to do when you’re like this, oh god—“

Eiji’s breath catches before another rolling sob wracks through him. _“I don’t know;_ I’m an emotional wreck, and I don’t know _why.”_ He’s full-on crying at this point, the frustration with himself boiling over the top. “Before— _before_ I would feel _nothing,_ but now it’s like everything is piercing me right through a thousand times over, relentlessly, and I can’t make it _stop,_ what even is this?”

Ash pulls away even as Eiji clings to him. 

And then, his breaths are sealed, stopped, when Ash kisses him. 

_“Wha—“_

And again, this time leaning forward to close the space between them. Eiji lets go of Ash, falling back against a fluffy pillow with wide-eyes, shoulders flinching forward. Ash chases his lips, one hand holding himself up over Eiji so he doesn’t crush him, the other curved around the back of his neck, thumb pressed against the bottom of Eiji’s jaw, holding his chin up. He pauses briefly, and when Eiji doesn’t push him away or otherwise refuse his advances, Ash closes the space between them.

Again, fingers moving away from Eiji’s skin, weaving through his hair. 

And again, breath tickling Eiji’s mouth, softly, then finally stopping. 

Two jade irises, a clear image in front of him. Something shimmering is caught between some of Ash’s fair lashes, and it takes a while for Eiji to realize they were so close that the tears from his eyes now spider across the tops of Ash’s. His chest heaves, but for two entirely different reasons. 

“Oxytocin, a chemical neurotransmitter,” Ash explains breathlessly, concern still knitted in his brows. “I’ve read it makes people feel better, amongst other things. I didn’t know what else to do; are you okay?” When Eiji doesn’t respond, Ash continues, “do you want more? Do you want me to hold you?”

A laugh bubbles into the air.

Ash freezes.

“I love you.” 

Eiji’s voice is completely ruined, sobbed raw, but he’s still laughing. He’s convinced he’s gone mad. “Oh my goodness, Ash, I love you. I love you so much, you have no idea—“

He steadies himself, hand reaching up, the pads of his fingers wiping his own tears away from Ash’s eyes. “I should have told you before, but I love you, I do, ever since you took me to the sea with an inextricably lost expression and started talking about your home in Cape Cod. I love you, Ash.” Eiji lowers his voice, staring right up at him. “Please don’t ever disappear.”

“What do you mean?” Ash’s voice is a little hoarse, but he still smiles, and it makes Eiji _feel_ things. His heart is so full, despite how utterly broken he has been before. “I already promised I’d stay with you forever.” He rolls over on his back before shifting to his side, gathering Eiji to his chest.

When Eiji is drifting asleep, he hears Ash’s respond to the silence, “I’ve loved you for the longest time.”

-

“What the fuck is happening?”

Sing glances at Ash, shrugging. “Hell if I actually know.” Rather than the usual oversized hoodies he likes to wear, he has donned a tee over a pair of shorts, one of the shoelaces on his sneakers undone. Eiji is about to mention it when Sing plops his carry-on onto the side and leans over to retie it. 

The back collar of his tee pulls down, and Eiji doesn’t know if he’s seeing wrong, but he can just make out the outline of black ink, stark against the pale skin of his back. He blinks once but doesn’t pay attention to the rest, patting Ash’s shoulder. “Nadia said she didn’t want to have a traditional wedding since the groom’s side of the procession would be startlingly empty. So she suggested something different.”

“How are you so calm?” Ash pulls off his baseball cap, raking his fingers through his locks. The strands have gotten considerably long, his fringe no longer framing his face, but pushed to the side, the back of his neck covered in silky strands. On the contrary, Eiji just got another haircut, so his once-overgrown hair that grew out again these past months is now trimmed neatly above his ears, the front of his bangs above his brows and curling back to the sides of his face. “This is Japan, right?” Ash squints at the signs by the side of the airport terminal, hardly able to read anything without his glasses on. When Eiji digs into his bag and hands them to him, Ash shoves them onto his face, blinking a few times. “Kyoto? Isn’t this where your university is?”

Eiji sighs and notices Sing staring hard at Ash with a thinly-veiled judgemental look on his face, then back around them where a few passersby were shooting small glances at the scene. Either, they were attracted to Ash’s appearance despite him having barely just woken up, or they thought he was crazy. 

“The entire week, Shorter was briefing us on the whole thing and warned you to be ready by four in the morning so we can make it to our early flight, but you didn’t listen to him at all, didn’t you?” Eiji raises a brow. “I had to run over and get you on the plane myself, and now you’re finally awake.”

“You can’t blame me, Ei-chan,” Ash mutters, fixing the baseball cap back over his head, a shadow over half his pretty features. “I wake up expecting to be in my apartment, but I’m here instead—how does that even work?” 

“Uh, I think we should go now and meet up with everyone else,” Sing says. “Also, Eiji, you might want to, like, tie a scarf over your face or something because everyone keeps on staring at you. And Ash, but Ash isn’t too noticeable right now.”

Grabbing the handle of his suitcase in one hand and Ash’s hand in the other, Eiji follows after Sing. He peers at his surroundings and realizes what Sing says is true. But for all he knows, they could be admiring Ash’s face rather than looking at him. “Are you sure, Sing?”

Scrunching up his face, Sing points above them where a few duty-free shops selling luxury cosmetics are set up. “You’re on the freaking screen right now, you idiot.”

_Huh?_

Eiji follows his line of sight, and it’s like someone has chucked hin straight into a pool filled with ice water because the boy is right. The short ad they shot a few months ago is airing on the huge screen, and though Eiji’s appearance isn’t exactly the same as it was during the shoot, it’s _obviously_ his face that is up there right now, one hand up pressing a tube of lipstick against the slight curve of his mouth as he stares down at everyone else like he’s about to eat them all up. 

Spinning around, Eiji snatches the baseball cap off of Ash’s head and pulls it low of his eyes before reaching up to pull Ash’s hoodie up over his head, tugging on the drawstrings. 

“Oh, it came out pretty nice, didn’t it?” Ash comments nonchalantly. “I mean, you were good at acting that part out, but the editing makes it—”

“Please, Ash,” Eiji hisses, face burning. “I don’t want to talk about it.” 

Ash doesn’t let up, loosening the ties on his hoodie. “Oh, it’s us up there now.” His brows rise up to his hairline as he grins. “Who would’ve thought our roles could be so easily switched like that. Honestly, I wouldn’t mind if you—”

Eiji grabs his hoodie drawstrings and marches forward, tugging Ash behind him like that while the latter’s muffled laughter enters the air.

-

The wedding never actually happened, but they all still had fun. Enough fun that the once place Eiji never thought he would find himself going back to in such a short time was more or less replaced with the good memories he made with everyone else.

Nadia and Charlie said their vows at a near-empty beach near the Sea of Japan, and Shorter rented out a karaoke room for them to all fool around in afterwards before they dined at a too-fancy restaurant and ended up stopping by some street stalls for more comfort food. And now, Ash and Eiji were back at that beach, their oxfords casted away as the cool pre-autumn air rolls over them with the susurrations of the waves just in front. 

They all lit sparklers, crouching over the water in the dark with their slacks rolled up and toes dipped in freezing water, watching the colors splay across the waves by the shore like watercolor spilling across a piece of grooved glass. But the rest of the party already left for the hotel, beyond tired and ready for the day to end. 

Eiji brings his unlit sparkler near Ash’s, watching as the end of the wire lights up in a start and begins popping and crackling into the air. 

It’s probably the twentieth one he’s lit today.

But he can’t be blamed, the light is mesmerizing. 

He glances sideways at Ash who has one cheek pressed against the palm of his hand, the other arm resting against his knee, the sparkler near the water. He’s still wearing his glasses as Eiji never had the chance to pack a week’s worth of contacts, jade eyes illuminated behind thick lens rimmed with gold. 

_And Ash is, too._

The boy catches him staring at him, a lazy smile curving at his lips. “What?”

Eiji is no longer embarrassed when Ash catches him. “Nothing. I just thought you look beautiful.”

Ash chokes, almost dropping the sparkler into the ocean. He turns away for a moment, recollecting himself before looking back at Eiji, cheeks flushed, but not from the semi-chilly air. “How is it that you’re fine saying _these_ things out loud, but completely against others doing it?” 

“It’s easier saying it than having someone else say it to you,” Eiji reasons, then adds, “Besides, it’s really only if _you_ say something like that that makes me flustered.”

“Hm.” On one hand, Ash seems like he wants to say something, but opts to stay silent, obviously happy at what Eiji said.

A few minutes pass by them like that, untouched, before Eiji lets out a soft sigh and lays his burnt-out sparkler in the grave of about a score of others beside his shoes and stands, legs immediately aching from being used to that crouched position.

Ash follows suit, hooking his fingers through his fancy oxfords and collecting the few sparklers he lit throughout the night as well as Eiji’s. “You wanna go back? If we stay for too long, I feel like Shorter might panic and run back to get us anyway.”

“Mm.” Eiji spends a few minutes with Ash, feet sinking into the sand as he makes his way up and back into the town. “I’m thinking about visiting my family tomorrow morning.”

“That’s good, right?”

Eiji contemplates for a second. “But it means being out for the next two days. I didn’t come here to see people; I came here to give Nadia and the rest company. And make sure they don’t get lost since they can’t speak or read Japanese.” 

“What? And you think I can’t help them instead?” 

“I want you to come with me.”

“Oh.”

When Eiji doesn’t respond, Ash continues, “Well, I’m sure Nadia would want you to visit since you’re here already, nor would she probably force you to stay if you asked about it. Besides, they can survive by themselves. You don’t need to know the language to get around—it’s just easier if you do.” 

“But still.” Eiji chews his bottom lip. “This trip isn’t for me—”

“Come _on,_ Ei-chan.” Ash nudges him with his hip, both hands still occupied until he finally finds a trash can to throw the burnt sparklers into. “Sometimes you just have to be selfish for once, yeah? I’ll drag you over to Izumo myself if you say no.”

“Okay.”

“Right, I’ll go buy some tickets.”

Eiji pauses, then pulls out his phone, showing Ash his screen somewhat reluctantly. “I, um, actually already bought two prior to coming here.”

Ash’s eyes fly wide open, but there’s a distinct grin at his lips as if he’s delighted someone he regards as innocent would have the audacity to do something remotely bad. He probably is. _”Ei-chan—!”_

-

If he’s being honest, Eiji wasn’t able to sleep for the entire night. Even though their train was scheduled to leave in the afternoon, he still felt terrible dragging himself out of bed and shoving his aching body into the shower to wake himself up. Not that it really helped.

And as they’re leaving the train’s terminal, ready to catch a bus that will take them near Eiji’s town, he’s still exhausted, nervous jitters running throughout his body. 

Ash sits down on the seat next to him as Eiji droops over the backpack he’s hugging against his chest like a flower deprived of sunlight, chin resting somewhat awkwardly on top of it. He feels a hand gently move his head to the side where Ash’s shoulder is, and he’s able to close his eyes and sleep for once.

-

Eiji wakes up to Ash shaking him away, his name whispered next to his ear.

The bus has stopped, the sky already a darker blue, tinged orange and vermillion at the horizon as the sun begins to set. 

Ash half-carries him out of the bus and onto the empty bench where the stop is as the sound of tires on the road fades away. 

“Do you need to rest for a moment before walking?” 

“No.” Eiji forces himself to stand, shaking his head. “I can sleep tonight.”

Shrugging the bag up higher on his shoulder, Ash looks doubtful but doesn’t insist. He takes Eiji’s hand, letting him guide him past traditional-style houses through one of the many neighborhoods near the main street. It’s nothing like the New York Eiji is now comfortable with, but still the once place he can’t help but call home.

He’s turning around one of the corners, passing by a small manju shop when he hears someone call his name. Ash notices the voice as well, letting go of Eiji’s hand to turn around just as someone barrels in Eiji, causing him to stumble a few steps back and almost fall back if it isn’t for Ash who hurriedly rushes behind him, arms out to catch him as well as the figure clinging to him.

It takes him a while to process what just happened.

Pink hair plaited into two long braids and a girl’s uniform that looks startlingly like the ones he has often seen back in senior high. 

Ash peeks over Eiji’s shoulder. “Are you…” He switches to Japanese. “Are you Eiji’s sister?”

Emi detaches herself just enough so she can see, then blushes once her eyes land on Ash. Then, she buries her face back into Eiji’s chest, arms still wrapped tightly around him. 

Eij lets her stay like that for a few minutes, then pats her back gently. “Emi, I can’t breathe.” His voice comes out calm and collected, but his systematic nervous system is going crazy right now. He actually feels a little faint. When she doesn’t budge, he sucks in a forceful breath of air. _“Emi.”_

She finally lets go but remains next to Eiji, one arm hooked around his as she ducks half-behind him, her other hand pulling one of her braids up front and over her face. 

“You look cute as always; don’t worry,” Eiji reassures. For someone who is usually unapologetically bold and sociable, Emi has a weakness toward pretty faces. Eiji can’t deny the fact that he also feels the same way—no matter how shameful he feels to acknowledge it. He just doesn’t react as strongly as Emi does during these kinds of situations.

“He’s your friend?” 

Eiji smiles. “Kind of.”

Her eyes widen. _“Boyfriend?”_

“Yup,” Ash interjects, a smile on his face. “And I second what Eiji said; even when you just woke up in the morning that night Eiji called you, you still looked cute.” 

Emi’s face flushes deeper, and Eiji smacks Ash’s arm. 

And, of course, after Ash’s cheesy statement, Emi seemed more relaxed around him, able to stand beside him as they walk the rest of the way to their house. She converses in rapid-fire Japanese that leaves Ash clueless, especially when she slips into the _umpaku_ dialect for some words and phrases when she’s ranting. 

Eiji is about to ask her to slow down when she takes off running towards a house at the end of the street, rifling through her bag to grab a set of keys and slides the door open, discarding her sneakers quickly at the front and disregarding the slippers ordered neatly beside the door. _”Kaa-san, tou-san,_ Ei-chan came back!” 

It doesn’t take Eiji’s mom long to make it to the entrance, still dressed in business casual for her day job as a curator. His dad takes a little while longer, shuffling out of his workroom half-asleep as he squints at the scene in front of him. 

Eiji’s mom is all over him as Ash stands somewhat to the side before being coaxed into a huge group-hug. 

Smiling, Eiji’s dad also brings him into an embrace, hands patting his back affectionately. “Welcome back, Ei-chan.” There is sentiment in the way he says his name.

Pumped full of emotion, Eiji swallows through the tightness of his throat, the apprehension he felt the night before gone.

When he got off the bus, the sunset was just starting. But now it’s clear across the sky, through the windows of the living area, casting everything in a brilliant, warm glow.

He remembers seeing this place as shadows and darkness just like his filter on Kyoto, but it seems this is no longer the case. Or rather, it’s _not_ the case. Not at all.

It’s light.

“I’m home.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading!! ♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡♡
> 
> This is the official end of the fic, but as I’ve stated in the last chapter, I’ll be including an epilogue for Yue/Sing and Ash/Eiji and might also be considering writing a few extras if I still can’t move on from this haha. 
> 
> When I wrote original fic on a different creative platform, I'd include both epilogues and extras at the end of the novel, but I've noticed that on ao3, authors usually put them all in a collection. Despite this, I'm still going to continue the extras and epilogues here after the main story since that's what I'm used to. 
> 
> I’ll see you all in the next.~


	17. (Epilogue: Part One)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Yut-Lung is irritated.

Yut-Lung is irritated.

Irritated, sensitive, and drunk as fuck.

He tipped back too many drinks this complete stranger gave him without even checking to see if it was drugged, and now he’s trying to keep his head from lolling back, barely able to stay on the barstool he’s sitting on. Or rather, that same guy’s arm is around his waist, the tips of fingers pressed too tight against Yut-Lung’s buzzing body.

He’s flushed, the heat coming from underneath the halter neckline of his top and crawling up against his cheeks to the tips of his ears. He can even feel it on his bare shoulders, skin somehow way too sensitive when those fingers slide across the small of his back. 

Yut-Lung clenches his teeth together to fight back a moan, elbows coming down _hard_ against the glass countertop. It hurts, and it clears his mind just enough that he gets a good look at the guy who’s messing with him.

His vision wavers, mind spinning, as he sees a pair of hazel eyes stare back at him, a grin stretched so wide it ruins the guy’s relatively good looks. In any case, he’s way too young for Yut-Lung’s taste. Not that he can even consent to anything in his current state.

He honestly just wants to get back to his apartment, get rid of the tingly sensation of his body, and sleep all his pent-up anger and frustration off.

Arms coming out, he tries to shove the guy away, but his hands barely even do anything, their feeble attempt only glancing at the guy’s chest when he grabs both of Yut-Lung’s wrists in one hand and hauls him up and off the stool. 

Easily swinging Yut-Lung into his arms, the guy puts down a large bill onto the counter and nods his thanks to the bartender who slips the cash into his pocket.

Even though he can’t speak, Yut-Lung somehow still has the capacity to seethe, the fire pulsing behind his eyes.

 _Piece of shit. I’m going to fucking_ kill _you—_

“Whoa there.”

A blurry figure clutching two huge bags of trash jumps back as the guy plows right through. In a white button-down tucked into a pair of black slacks, he’s definitely dressed like an employee. He’s also wearing a baseball cap with a jacket thrown over his head in vain effort to ward off the rain that is relentlessly pouring down, innocent dark eyes wide with surprise. There is confusion in them too, mixed with something else, but Yut-Lung can barely tell anymore.

“Well, excuse _you.”_

“Fuck off.” The guy holding Yut-Lung snarls. 

On top of being so uncharismatic that he has to spike someone’s drink to get laid, this guy obviously has no manners whatsoever. Yut-Lung decides he’s going to _actually_ kill him once he comes to.

Without missing a beat, the figure chucks one of the trash bags at the man, then darts forward to catch Yut-Lung with one arm, his other darting out as he curves it and sends his elbow down onto the man’s skull. 

Yut-Lung sucks in a shaky breath of air, feet unsteady on the asphalt ground as he tips over a bit, but the figure doesn’t let him fall, opting to carry him to a tiny sedan at the corner of the parking lot before sliding into the driver’s seat, phone already out and pressed against his ear. 

Pulling his legs up against his chest, Yut-Lung fights the urge to find friction to relieve himself of the heat that is collecting at his core, instead biting down on his bottom lip and curling up as tiny as he can, cursing silently in Cantonese. 

A jacket is thrown over him before he feels the car start, and somewhere in his thoughts he finds something very familiar about the person who just saved him.

-

It’s him, alright.

Not that Sing would ever miss his face if he ever passed by.

One big-ass city and _he_ manages to waltz into the same bar Sing decided he’d work at as a part-time during his year semester at university. It’s a crappy bar, to top that off. A crappy gay bar where the only reason why the manager hired him despite him having no prior official work experience and being only nineteen is the fact that he’s pretty good at handling angry and violent customers. 

Sing doesn’t really have anything to say except for the fact that the pay is pretty good despite the quality of the place and that he owes his height and stature to his genes which only began to express themselves when he turned sixteen. Back then, he didn’t understand what a growth spurt was until he grew a whole six inches at seventeen and another at eighteen. 

The whole thing doesn’t make sense, but Sing could care less for biology.

Fitting his key into the lock of his dingy one-room apartment, he has to turn it slowly and gently so he doesn’t risk breaking the door again.

When he finally makes it inside, he first tugs off Yut-Lung’s heeled boots before stepping out of his own shoes. Even though the oxfords were about the most expensive article of clothing he’s ever purchased, he’s glad he actually got sturdy leather ones or the whole thing would’ve seen the trash by now.

The bar works him to the bone, but Sing is also convinced that maybe he does take on too many jobs at once. This part-time is the only one showing up on government records, but he’s also juggling a few informal ones in his hometown. One arm still curled around Yut-Lung’s body over his shoulder, he stretches out his fingers before grasping something invisible in his hands. He’s taken a long break from the shop, but he’s ready to go back.

Though, well, it’s all expected. He _is_ a poor-as-heck college student; after all.

Sure, he had his tuition paid and all, but he still has to set money aside for his future plans. And he isn’t about to let Shorter know what he’s planning, hence the moving out of the cushy penthouse and into a small apartment like this one. 

In any case, it’s an accommodation Sing is already used to. Even at Shorter’s place, he hardly ever went outside his room except to make brunch or grab something from the fridge. He’s low-maintenance too, so the low ceilings, nicked sheetrock, and slightly cramped design of the whole space are doable. Now, Sing spends most of his time outside, anyway.

Flinging open the closet door, Sing pulls out a freshly laundered bed sheet and lowers Yut-Lung on top before wrapping him securely in it. He’s still dripping wet from the rain, cold sweat mixed with water making his uniform stick to his body in uncomfortable transparent patches. 

Yut-Lung stares back at him, brows drawn together, irises nearly engulfed by his pupils. He looks like he’s in pain, chest heaving against the sheet, turning his face to the side as he squeezes his eyes shut. “What… are you doing?” 

“Making sure you don’t catch something nasty,” Sing replies, undoing his tie before starting on the buttons of his shirt. “And taking a shower as I always do after work.” He pauses. “Except, this time, I ran off without checking in with my boss. Not that she can afford to fire me.”

“Where is the other guy?” 

“Probably on his way to the station. Same goes with that new bartender who thought he could pull something like that without getting caught.” Peeling his shirt off, he tosses it into the laundry basket. “This is why you shouldn’t go to cheap-ass bars like that when you can afford someplace fancy. Also, just buy your own drinks; don’t trust people who go to places like that.”

“What?” Yut-Lung shoots him an accusatory glare. “Should I not trust you, then?” 

“I’m not a customer, Yue. I _work_ there.” Sing throws his pants in the basket as well before opening the bathroom door. “Just lie there and be good for five minutes.”

It doesn’t take long for Sing to finish; since his time living in this apartment, he’s realized that if he spends more time than necessary inside, the steam from the hot water fill the bathroom and escapes through the door, making his room as well as the rest of the place unbearably hot. 

There is a vent he could’ve used, but it broke a few weeks ago and he knows if he asks for maintenance to come over, they’ll probably make the situation way worse. And somehow track dirt all over the already somewhat dirty carpet of his room. So, he’d rather deal with the shorter showers. His water bills come out way less, too.

Surprisingly, Yut-Lung didn’t pull sometime while he was gone. Sing half expected him to completely go against his wishes, but he’s literally still laying on the bed wrapped up like a human sushi, dark hair dripping wet against the top layer of the mattress. 

Sing doesn’t say anything as he leans down to untangle Yut-Lung from the sheets. And once the sheets are undone, Sing turns to his closet, rummaging through his clothes. He pulls out an old pastel hoodie. “I don’t have anything here that fits you, but this should be warm enough.” 

It’s slight, but he can feel the air behind him move, the rush of it against his back as a thin arm snakes over one of his shoulders, the tip of something cold and sharp against his neck. 

Sing sighs internally. To think Yut-Lung _wouldn’t_ do anything was a little too much to wish for, apparently.

“Who the _fuck_ are you? Why are you talking to me like you know me?”

Sing drops his hoodie back on a shelf, closing his eyes for a brief moment. He was just going to let Yut-Lung stay for a night and expect him gone by morning, but the familiarity in his tone is something he couldn’t help. 

The pointed edge pierces the surface of his skin, the sting of it millions less than what Sing is used to. “How do you know my name?” 

“Well, a few years back, you used to be a popular model, for one. And as for me, I’ve obviously changed a lot,” Sing says, keeping his voice level, “but who I am doesn’t matter. It’ll be better for both of us if you act like you don’t know me.” 

Yut-Lung lets out a deep breath of air, and it sounds tortured. 

Sing presses his lips together, lowering his eyes to the hoodie in front of him. He wonders if Yut-Lung remembers at least a part of him—a piece of who he was before he stormed out of his place five years ago with a broken heart and heat behind his eyes that let out into shameful tears. Not because he was ashamed of crying as a _man_ , per se, but because he thought he might have a chance at this thing called “love” that has already ruined the lives of so many people he knows. 

Of course, life likes to screw people over, and Sing’s is no exception. 

“I’m surprised you can stand,” Sing says. “Does it hurt that much?” 

The fine edge lowers from Sing’s neck as Yut-Lung lets it slide from his fingers. It clatters onto the vinyl floorboards. It’s a silver hairpin, simple enough in design, but clearly used for multiple purposes other than to hold hair up. 

Yut-Lung rests his forehead against the back of Sing’s neck, and Sing sucks in a breath of air, holding it in for as long as he can before letting it out shakily. It’s not only his breaths that is shaking but his entire body. 

The tremors start from the tips of his fingertips all the way up to his shoulders and down the line of his back to his toes. He can feel it like he’s been standing outside for hours in the rain. 

“The shock makes me sober,” Yut-Lung murmurs, his voice slightly muffled by the cotton of Sing’s shirt. “Of course, I know who you are. No one has ever called me ‘Yue’ except for some asshole and that one stupid boy who ran away and never came back. Also, I’m fucking cold.”

“You should take a shower.” Grabbing the same hoodie and a spare towel, Sing dumps it in Yut-Lung’s arms. “Stay the night. It’s too dark outside.” 

Yut-Lung stares at the pile of fabric for several moments, then chucks it back into the closet. “It has been nearly _five_ years since we last met, but you brush it off as if it’s _nothing.”_

Sing just blinks back. He thought _he_ was the one who was going to unravel, soul unhinged the moment he discovered he had feelings for Yut-Lung, but the fact that Yut-Lung is angry at his calm approach to the situation honestly surprises him. 

From what he’s learned throughout the two months he worked for Yut-Lung spying on Ash and Eiji, people are easily replaceable to him. He doesn’t value anyone more than he values a piece of scrap paper, and though Sing knows Yut-Lung beats himself up for things he has no control over, he has also already come to the conclusion that Yut-Lung knows his literal _worth._

He’s perceptive enough to understand how most people feel about him, smart enough to know when to pull the strings and when to cut them off. 

It may be the alcohol flowing through his veins and the drugs doing things to his brain, but Yut-Lung, for the second time, is actually throwing something like a temper tantrum. 

He backs Sing up against the wall, lashes dripping with excess water, long locks still in the twisted shape he had them in, though now relaxed against and down one shoulder. 

His skin is so much paler than Sing remembers, and the deathly silver glow of the moon outside the window doesn’t make his complexion look any better. But there’s red rimming his top lash, red at the tops of his cheekbones all the way to his temples. Sing can feel the almost frigid temperature of Yut-Lung’s skin against his own, but his face looks warm. 

Swallowing, Sing has to physically wrench his eyes away, twisting his face to one side. 

Yut-Lung reaches up and locks his fingers behind Sing’s neck, bringing himself up on his toes. His breath is hot against his cheek, lips just as cold when they skid past the hook of Sing’s jawline. “Because if you’re acting indifferent when you still think intimately of me, then, _fuck you.”_

Then, he saunters off into the bathroom after grabbing the same towel and hoodie from the open closet, slamming the door behind him.

A minute later, the water turns down, the rushing sound of it accompanied by the rattling of the curtain closing.

Sing sinks down onto the floor, face blazing, hands pressing against the heat of it. It spreads across his body and to his core, the throb of it unmistakable. 

When he lets his head fall back against the wall, he closes his eyes, a long sigh dragging out from his throat.

_Damn. I’m hard._

-

Sing wakes up at five in the morning, and while that might sound like some obscene time to get up to most people, especially since practically got zero sleep lying on a couch that he didn’t fit on at all, he’s used to it. He doesn’t remember ever sleeping past eight for years. Even if he wanted to fall back asleep, his body never let him. Some might argue that it’s a blessing he should take—being so accustomed to both early mornings and late nights, but the fact of the matter is that he’s probably killing himself slowly, and he should probably do something about his lack of sleep.

He tells himself soon, but he knows that “soon” is his definition of “until I can’t function anymore,” which is super unhealthy and Shorter would yell at him until his ears bled, but he’s not living with Shorter anymore, so it’s just the voice in his head that berates him. It doesn’t take much effort to push it to the side.

He spends about thirty minutes taking notes on a paper he’s going to have to discuss during his first class before switching over to spend another two hours catching up on a few readings he’s been behind on for a different class. By the time he’s done, the sun has broken past the horizon, the sky already lightening to a cool gray. 

After sliding his laptop into his bag, Sing quietly pads into his room, allowing himself a cursory glance Yut-Lung’s way. He’s curled up in the center of the bed, hugging the pillow to his chest with half of the duvet trailing on the floor behind him. Sing covers him with it before grabbing a random pullover and covering the wrinkled t-shirt he wore to sleep with it. He trades his sweatpants for a pair of black denim, then retraces his steps back into the kitchen to make breakfast.

Breakfast isn’t something traditional like how Shorter would make it with rice and light side dishes, but more so for convenience. 

Sing puts a few slices of bread in the toaster, then works on cracking eggs into the frying pan, laying bacon on one side and listening to the sizzle of what became a perfunctory morning routine. Not that he really likes having a schedule set before him every day but that he knows he can’t fool around anymore and waste time. None of that is going to help him.

Filling a kettle with water, he sets that opposite to the pan and rips open two packets of black tea before putting one in each of two cups. 

He’s just about done with everything in those fifteen minutes when Yut-Lung casually walks in, hair flawless and silky smooth over one shoulder. He fixes his eyes on Sing, the corners pulled flat for a long moment before going up to the kettle on the stove and pouring the hot water into those two mugs. 

Grabbing one, he offers it to Sing as if he is the host, then takes one for himself, blowing at the top where steam rises and flushes his already rosy cheeks even more. 

Yut-Lung looks very much human like this—more than he did back then while he was perched up on a throne with his name as a Lee and got comfortable with the title even when he hated it. 

Sing watches as the leaves unfurl within the water, the transparent clear turning to a yellow-brown. 

He wants to ask Yut-Lung where he’s been and what he’s been doing ever since he turned his brothers’ agency over to some no-name person who once worked underneath him. The company hasn’t been rebranded in any way or much less changed, but the abrupt shift in power after that huge scandal between them, Ash, and Golzine had them down in a hole for a while. When police found the remainder of his family dead in a reclusive manor in the literal woods, that also sparked news. 

Sing isn’t surprised at the least if all of that caused Yut-Lung to leave and become a ghost for these five years, but he has a feeling it’s not because he doesn’t want to take the responsibility onto his own shoulders or that he can’t bear to see his face in the dirt. Yeah, Yut-Lung has pride—as do many people—but it would be too simple to pin the motive on that one reason.

Funny how he can still be thinking about all of this even when it’s just old news and old sentiment rising at the surface. But some of it had lingered, and coincidentally seeing Yut-Lung last night hasn’t doused those flames but rather fed to them.

“You perhaps hate me to some degree, don’t you?” 

Again with those words—completely cutting out all pleasantries and bluntly stating a fact. The mug touches Sing’s mouth, earl grey sloshing against his lips. He knows the answer even without considering it.

After all, it was a question that was on his mind for a while. He avoided the areas Yut-Lung frequented, walked in a large arc around his apartment complex even if it meant it was going to cut into his time and waste his energy. But Sing isn’t the type to _hate._

“I thought about it,” he says honestly. “I tried hating you—ever since the beginning, obviously, ‘cause it would’ve made my life a lot easier. But you should already know, right? I couldn’t. I _can’t.”_

Yut-Lung watches him with steady eyes. “Can’t hate the person who killed your father? Who also instigated a whole purge of your relatives and a few of your father’s men?”

“His _friends,”_ Sing corrects softly, setting his cup down on the counter. “I _was_ angry. Angry and hurt, but then it kind of melted away after a few minutes.”

Uncrossing his arms, Yut-Lung sighs, gaze sliding away to peek at the sky, a wide expanse that isn’t so much as clear as it is blue. “Why?”

“You act like you’re selfish and don’t care about people when I know, deep down, you do.”

Yut Lung rolls his eyes, nimble fingers combing his long locks over one shoulder. “Idiot. I’m not the one who cares about those two lovebirds— _you_ are.”

Sing blinks. “What?”

He turns around to grab his own mug of tea, first picking up the knife still lodged in the jar before licking the rest of the strawberry jam off of it. Setting it down on his plate, Yut-Lung takes a long sip from his cup, eyes flickering up to catch Sing’s. “You think Eiji had the resources to know where Ash is? That place was one no one else knew of but Golzine and my brother, Wang-Lung.”

“I thought Blanca—“

Yut-Lung sets the empty mug down. “Blanca may be a contract killer with an intelligent mind and capable body, but that doesn’t mean he can sniff out where someone is _that_ fast.”

Sing is shaking. “So you did it for me?”

“If you’d like to think of it in that way, yes.”

Marching up to Yut-Lung, Sing slams his hands down on the table, arms caging Yut-Lung in. A fleeting note of surprise makes his eyes widen, but they quickly settle back to their usual passive state. 

And when Sing leans down, messy bangs flattening against Yut-Lung’s forehead, he doesn’t even waver the slightest.

“Can I kiss you?”

Yut-Lung’s eyes flicker to Sing’s mouth, then come back up. “Can you? Well, you are capable of it, right?”

 _Oh my god._ One hand coming up, Sing presses the pad of his finger underneath Yut-Lung’s chin, nudging it up just enough to meet his. It’s soft, the most delicate of butterfly wings brushing against each other—a chase, yet gentle kiss that makes a shiver run down the whole length of his body. His stomach flips, and he feels like he’s fifteen again, on his bed with a lollipop in his mouth and wondering what it would feel like to have Yut-Lung in front of him like this. 

When he pulls back a few centimeters, Yut-Lung’s eyes burn into his. In his peripheral, he can see Yut-Lung’s fingers curl around the wooden table, knuckles turning while. The corners of Sing’s lips curl up.

 _”May_ I?”

 _“Fucking hell,”_ Yut-Lung mutters, arms coming up around Sing. His fingers weave through Sing’s hair, tightening before pulling him down, stepping forward to close the space between them.

A puff of air escapes his mouth as he melts against Sing, eyes fluttering closed. When Yut-Lung kisses Sing, his lashes brush against the bridge of Sing’s nose, too light and too delicate. Like he’s going to disappear—ephemeral enough that it makes Sing finally hold him, hands curling around Yut-Lung’s waist, his grip pulling the sweatshirt up a couple centimeters. 

Sing can tell he’s lost weight, the wings of his hipbones startlingly present against Sing’s thumbs, torso swooping inwards where his hips meet his waist.

But though he’s more fragile, Yut-Lung isn’t any less gentle by all means—he moves with desperation, taking Sing’s bottom lip into his mouth, soft gasps erupting from his throat, one hand now bunching the thin cotton of Sing’s shirt in his palm, pulling it back as a signal that he wants it off.

The fact that he’s with someone he actually loves makes Sing weak in the knees, face flushing as one hand shoots out to grip the side of the table.

Yut-Lung drags his tongue across the seam of Sing’s mouth before pressing a kiss at its corner, lips glancing across his cheek when he pulls back.

His eyes are impossibly dark, the blackest Sing has ever come across. “What’s wrong?” 

Shaking his head, Sing lets his forehead falling on Yut-Lung’s shoulder. “Nothing. I’m just—“

Yut-Lung’s hands slide past the hem of his shirt, traveling across the expanse of his back and over the ridges of his scars. Sing shivers, his breaths catching at his throat. “Overwhelmed?”

“Probably.”

“Hm.” Tugging Sing’s shirt over his head, Yut-Lung trails open-mouthed kisses across Sing’s shoulder, his collarbone, the soft skin at the hollow of his throat. It’s only when his fingers dip into the waistband of Sing’s sweatpants that Sing suddenly pulls away, chest heaving.

His mind is so fuzzy, the sweet taste of strawberry on his lips. The initial confidence he had when he first initiated this whole thing has fizzled down so quickly he wonders where it went.

All he feels now is the rawness of his feelings, of the faint buzz in his veins and the euphoria sparking being his eyes because _holy crap_ it’s all finally dawning on him that Yut-Lung might like him back and—

Yut-Lung narrows his eyes at him. “Something _is_ wrong.”

“No, it’s just… I—“ He sucks in his upper lip, eyes settling on Yut-Lung’s. “I… don’t want to crash hard this time. I don’t want the emotion to overwhelm me as much as it did.” Sing is saying these words, but he can hear the thrum off his heart in his ears—of stimulated he already is. “I want to love you slowly and softly this time.” Lowering his voice, he forces air in through his lungs. “I want to make sure you love me wholly, so I’m not just another one of those old dudes you decided to get into a no-strings-attached relationship with.”

It takes several moments for Yut-Lung to respond, but Sing doesn’t need to listen to know what’s going on in his mind.

“I don’t know why it’s so difficult for you to understand.” Yut-Lung scoffs, but it’s one that is part frustration, part disbelief. “The fact that I haven’t forgotten you is evidence enough that you are not some other toy I fancy.”

He retreats back into Sing’s room, and when Sing follows him, he sees Yut-Lung flat against the bed, legs hanging off of one side. He shoots Sing daggers, arms crossing in front of his chest, but the childish behavior doesn’t even bother Sing. He’s used to it. Ash used to be like this _all the time_ at Shorter’s penthouse when Eiji first flew back to Japan for his second year at university.

Sighing, Sing grabs his bag before packing his work uniform into it. “I won’t be coming back until ten. There’s a spare key on the hanger by the door.” He spares one last glance at Yut-Lung. “Don’t disappear while I’m gone, okay?”

-

Admittedly, his outburst was unnecessary. Instead of getting angry and snapping at Sing like that, Yut-Lung could have expressed the fact that whatever was between him and Sing was nothing to be considered new.

Even if the feelings are new to him, their relationship stems past the conventional terms of “close acquaintances” where both parties don’t quite know each other that well but are somehow still intimate in some way. 

It’s frustrating because Yut-Lung doesn’t know how to deal with this situation. If he should get up from the bed, don his own clothes which were definitely still in the laundry basket and very dirty, and get to his shop because he still has a couple of client meetings today, or if he should just lie here in a sweatshirt that isn’t his and wait for Sing to come back in twelve hours. 

Both are options he doesn’t want to take. Venturing back into the bathroom where he last left his phone, Yut-Lung presses the first number in his contact list, lifting the screen to his ear. 

“Yes?”

Just because everyone in his immediate family was dead and their name was sold off to some other entity didn’t mean all their contacts or servants were gone.

Yut-Lung, for one, doesn’t live in his family’s house, but his relatives still did. Even though he’s the heir to name, most of his relatives don’t care what he does with his life. He knows they prefer if he stays out of the family for as long as he lives because it meant that they would be able to leech off of his inheritance money. 

They think he’s stupid and incompetent as someone who has spent the majority of his entire life getting locked up and controlled by his older brothers, but they can think what they want. 

Yut-Lung feels the freest when he’s away from the people who share his blood.

He pushes his hair back away from his face, holding it in a makeshift ponytail. “Could you bring the car to this address after closing the shop and contacting the clients today that I’ll have to reschedule their appointments?”

“Yes.”

“And bring me a change of clothes.”

“Yes.”

-

Jian is almost _too_ good at what he does.

After following Yut-Lung around for five years, he has almost perfectly memorized his schedule and figured out which places he would frequent if Yut-Lung wasn’t back at the shop by three in the morning. Which was both good and bad. Good, because Yut-Lung sometimes wanted to go home but couldn’t because he was too disoriented to figure out what the heck was happening around him, but bad because Yut-Lung sometimes wanted to spend the night away from what he’s supposed to call home. 

Even though he’s already broken off all external ties from his past, it still messes him up inside. Although he understands some of his coping mechanisms aren’t necessarily good, he still can’t help but go with them anyway.

“Jian, how does one approach a relationship?”

He looks at Yut-Lung, face still as stoic as ever. “There is no set way—”

Yut-Lung waves his hand in the air. “I mean, what is your opinion on the matter? How fast do normal people go?”

Jian doesn’t even blink. “I have no opinions on the matter, and the pace of the relationship depends on what those in the relationship think it should be.”

“I don’t even know why I bothered to ask you.” 

Glancing at Yut-Lung, Jian crosses his arms together, leaning against the wall by the door. “If this is about that boy who you rejected those years ago, I suggest confiding in him. There are misunderstandings and old feelings between the two of you that need sorting out.” 

Yut-Lung pauses. “You know it’s him?”

“He called me last night on your phone and informed me about your whereabouts. I asked him who he is, and though he gave me a vague answer, it was easy enough to figure out,” Jian says. “You spoke about him often the year after you left the agency to open up your practice. Also, I recommend setting a password on your phone.” 

Yut-Lung screws up his face. “I can’t be bothered.” _I can’t be bothered with anything._ He always has everything fall into his lap wrapped up in a pretty little bow, and while he can’t say every relationship he’s been through, romantic or otherwise intimate, he can’t say many of the people he’s been with have ever refused physical advances. 

But Sing is a different matter, and Yut-Lung, as experienced in relationships as he was, is very inexperienced with the feelings that came with romantic relationships. 

Even that few-months fling with Shorter can’t even be called a real thing. Although they _had_ feelings for one another, none of it actually lasted long enough to be felt. Yut-Lung only realized later on—that night he got stabbed in the back by one of Golzine’s men—that maybe if Shorter didn’t burn on a short fuse when it came to family matters or if both of them were a little less impulsive and naive, then maybe they could have actually gone out with each other for real rather than playing out that kind of confusing deep, yet superficial indie-film love that came so fast and left so fast that the actors still reel from the afterimages two years later. 

But, to be honest, Yut-Lung has been a ghost these past five years not because of his guilt or because he doesn’t want the attention, but because he’s felt empty for a long while. 

Free, yet empty, because there was nothing for him to fill that void. 

The chains that were carefully and securely placed around his ankles and wrists snapped the moment his brothers’ secrets were leaked to the public, but that left him with nothing, and that feeling of absolute satisfaction and ecstasy he thought he would gain from it all never came. 

He’s always believed in things like fate, but he refuses to believe that fate made him stumble his way into that shitty bar to meet the only person he’s been avoiding for eons. 

Sighing, he thumps his forehead against the wall, closing his eyes. 

“There is nothing I believe someone should do, but this one time, Yut-Lung,” Jian continues, “I think you should ask someone of his character in the plainest words possible the things that are on your mind.”

“Should I?” 

Jian nods.

Yut-Lung gives his mind a moment to protest, but nothing surfaces. “Okay. I need some food. And wine.”

-

Needless to say that Yut-Lung could have definitely thrown his entire idea out of the window and gotten himself easily drunk off of wine while waiting for Sing to come back.

He doesn’t understand how some people can work so hard and still wake up the next morning to go through the same schedule all over again. 

As far as pain and pleasure went for Yut-Lung, he enjoyed both, but the kind of pain Sing goes through balancing university with part-time on top of other things Yut-Lung is sure he’s doing, is something he would never try. 

He fights the urge to grab the bottle of while Jian brought over from his home in an attempt to chug it all down and blame the things he’s about to say and do on the fact that he wasn’t sober, but what the hell, none of that stuff really works anyways, and Yut-Lung knows that even if he _is_ intoxicated, the only thing that happens to him is the flush that overheats his face. Alcohol is supposed to mess with the executive functions of the brain, but Yut-Lung has never felt himself suppressed by it. High tolerance is probably a part of it.

Setting his glass down, he pushes it a good distance away before setting his elbows down onto the table and pushing his fingers back into his loose hair. He exhales a forced breath of air, then holds for several moments before sucking in a lungful of air again.

Yut-Lung doesn’t want to deal with any of this at all.

When Yut-Lung hears rustling behind the door and the audible click of the lock opening, his heart does that thing he’s not used to and he straightens immediately. 

Sing emerges with his keys in hand, bag in the other. His face is slightly flushed from the cold, eyes downcast as he turns to close the door behind him before making sure it’s locked. 

Yut-Lung knows age changes people, but while he sees the same face in the mirror every morning, the same can’t be said about Sing. He always knew the boy had a complex about his height and his childish features, and while Sing has more or less retained the same qualities he had before, he still feels entirely different in a way that Yut-Lung wants to say is _good,_ but also somewhat bad because Sing has literally grown into the type of man Yut-Lung would immediately target when he’s out by himself at a bar or club. 

It’s a bit aggravating, really, and Yut-Lung takes a full mouthful of wine without even savoring the taste to dim the thoughts swirling in his mind. 

To him, love is physical, and he doesn’t even want to begin to explain the kinds of feelings he had last night towards Sing. Completely sober or drugged—he’s sure the feelings would be the same. 

Sing lets out a short breath of air, a wisp of a smile at the corner of his mouth. “Surprising.” 

“That I’m still here?” Yut-Lung asks, maintaining the same air of indifference he’s so used to exuding. “I know, I am as well.” 

“Because you—“ Sing stops short, pausing, but never finishes his sentence.

Yut-Lung taps a finger on the table. This isn’t going that well. “Because I what?”

“I realized I probably shouldn’t say anything without first thinking everything through.” Dropping his bag by the wall, Sing places his keys on the counter and brushes by Yut-Lung, already undoing the buttons of his shirt. “I’ll shower first; let’s talk later.”

Scooting his hair back, the legs dragging across the cheap linoleum floor, Yut-Lung grabs Sing’s arm. _“No,”_ he breathes, swallowing. “Let’s talk. Now.”

Sing seems to consider this for a moment for giving in, twisting around to pull a chair out for himself. Yut-Ling grabs the plate of food he kept in the microwave and slides it in front of Sing. Rather than any of this being intimate, Yut-Lung feels like he’s impersonating a mother feeding her son dinner after school or a part-time job. He wants to yell at himself on how bad of an idea all of this is, but the only thing he can do is sit back down again, taking his glass of wine back in his hand and sipping it liberally.

Blinking, Sing raises a brow, staring down at the food, then back at Yut-Lung. “...you’re not eating?” 

“I don’t eat after seven.”

His eyes trail over to Yut-Lung’s glass.

“But it’s fine to drink?”

“What? Do you propose I drink in the morning?”

“I mean, it’s probably better you don’t gulp it done all at once?”

Yut-Lung stops mid-way, freezing. He realizes he’s gripping the stem of his glass so hard the tips of his fingers are blanching and that unbeknownst to him, his other hand went to the half-drained bottle of pinot noir sitting to the side. He’s been drinking for so long, even from a young age, that this whole thing of taking sips or saving drinks for special occasions and whatnot have already passed by his mind.

Yut-Lung can’t remember a single day where he was actually able to fall asleep without having a full glass of wine.

Setting the glass down, he closes his eyes, then withers like a flower in his seat, back immediately hunched, perfect form crumbling because why does it even matter anymore. He makes a noise from the back of his throat, then pushes his hair back over his shoulders, huffing. “Okay,” he murmurs, to himself. “Let’s just…” he brings his gaze up to Sing’s, voice louder. “Let’s forget everything that happened just now and start all over.”

Sing accepts this, offering a slight nod. “Alright.”

“In all honesty—“ Yut-Lung stops, thinking back when he first told Blanca all of this then got humiliated for the rest of the night they were together. Gritting his teeth together, he tries to push his pride away, but it hardly works, the embarrassment clear in the way he can barely hold his gaze straight. “—and don’t mock me, but I don’t really know how to do this relationship thing.” He waves his hand in the air and says it like it’s something bitter he wants to get off his tongue, and while that’s partially true, Yut-Lung reigns in his jaded perspective. “I don’t know how to do anything but the physical… and I suppose you could say I’m a bit… a bit, um…”

“Emotionally constipated?” Sing says it with the most earnest expression on his face, fist pressed to his mouth as he sits back, tilting his chair back so the legs teeter on their very edge. 

Yut-Lung crosses his arms tightly against his chest, lips pressed together. “Fine—yes, I am. A bit.”

“More than a little, in my opinion.” 

The annoyed flush on Yut-Lung’s face deepens.

“But it’s okay—really.” Sing waves a hand in the air. 

His voice is nearly the same—a little lower— yet so much clearer with such a velvet softness that it pierces Yut-Lung right where he can feel it, at the center of his heart. And damn, he doesn’t know whether to relish in the feeling or abhor it. 

“Trust me when I say it’s a learning curve—you can be straight with me, and I promise I’ll be transparent as well, but if you prefer erring on the side of vagueness or simply stating something without elaborating, that’s fine too.” The corners of his mouth curls up. “You don’t think I expected you to be a whole different person, yeah? I know it takes time to become comfortable enough with someone. Some may think vulnerability and conflict is a bad thing that makes them undesirable or weak, but I don’t agree with that perspective.”

Yut-Lung’s tense body falls slack. His arms unfold, hands open on his lap. But he clenches then together, the nails digging into his palms. “Why do you—“ he licks his lips. “Why do you have to be so… _accepting?”_

“What?” Sing sits forward, elbows propped up on the table as he rests his chin on the backs of his hands. “Do you want me to make this hard for you?”

“...don’t feelings fade?”

“I sure don’t think yours did.” 

“I’m talking about _you,_ you little—“ Yut-Lung bites off a curse in Cantonese.

 _”Hey.”_ Arching a brow, Sing taps his mouth. “Yue, you already know I can understand every word you say.”

 _Fucking_ hell.

The blush on Yut-Lung’s face burns, and not because he was caught swearing at someone, but rather because of the way Sing says his goddamn _name._

It elicits a loud noise of frustration from the back of his throat, and Yut-Lung’s jerks his head up to shoot Sng a dark look before slamming his hands flat on the table and pushing his chair back with a loud screech. He stalks over to Sing’s side before motioning his hand for Sing to scoot back too. Wordlessly, Sing does as he’s told, and Yut-Lung doesn’t even bat an eye before depositing himself on Sing’s lap.

Yut-Lung flips his hair over a shoulder, leaning forward as he wraps his arms around Sing’s neck. 

Sing doesn’t resist, but he doesn’t outright submit either. His arms are slack on either side of his body, back still resting against the chair, face expressionless. It used to be so easy to make this boy flustered or angry, and though Yut-Lung misses how cute he used to be, the fact that he isn’t cracking immediately feeds to his curiosity.

“Was it easy to move on? Were you ever with other people? Are you stringing me on because you think it’s fun? Or is a relationship with me something that you actually want to invest in?” 

Sing doesn’t answer.

“Typically,” Yut-Lung murmurs, head tilting to the side, “people get tired of each other or they forget, and I’m starting to wonder if you brought me back here for your own entertainment.” This is all a lie because Yut-Lung knows Sing isn’t the type of person to do this, even if he did hold animosity against him. But he’s tired of going around in circles, feeling tongue-tied, the frustration pouring out so fast he can hardly hold the questions in. “I hurt you,” he says, voice so low he can barely hear himself speaking. _”Badly._ So it’s easy to understand why you might actually hate me, despite denying the fact.”

Sing’s eyes slide away, and he lets out a soft sigh. “That’s just bull, isn’t it? You don’t think I feel that way at all.” Lifting his back away from the chair, Sing narrows the gap between them. Surprised, Yut-Lung instinctively moves away, hitting the table behind him. Sing doesn’t say anything else until he has fully cornered Yut-Lung, their bodies flush against each other, Sing’s hands at Yut-Lung’s waist. 

“Would it make you feel better if I hated you?” 

Yut-Lung’s breath catches at his throat. A tiny shiver runs down his spine, and he tries to suppress the sudden surge of inappropriate thoughts that dominate his mind. When he was younger, he despited himself for thinking that way, but after almost eight years, he has more or less been accustomed to it. Whenever he craves something physical, he doesn’t give a single fuck anymore. Seeking one-time things were almost _too_ easy.

But when feelings are attached, he can’t help but feel a little bit of that old shame rise in his chest. Especially when the other party has already expressed that they want to take it slow before acting on impulse.

“Well, perhaps because hate is so much easier to understand than its counterpart,” Yut-Lung says. He can’t even utter the actual word. 

“Yue, I don’t—” Sing stops for a moment, his once serious visage crumbling to one of confliction. “I don’t hate you, and I don’t know how to make it clear enough for you to understand that rather than dislike, I actually—”

Yut-Lung stops the flow of words by pressing his hand against Sing’s mouth, head lowering to his shoulder, eyes shutting like it’s too painful to focus on the image in front of him. “Don’t say it.” His heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his head, blood vessels dilating for the blood to rush through like a current. When he breathes, it sounds like he’s panting, and he perhaps is, but he can’t even tell. 

Pulling Yut-Lung’s hand away, Sing gathers him into his arms. “It’s true,” he whispers. “I like you a lot—I always have, and maybe I got used to letting go of everything, so I let you go back then too, but this time, I won’t. Even if you want me to leave you alone, I won’t. You’re so disbelieving, you always think I must have something against you—you _hope_ I do just to lessen that miserable feeling you’re still hanging onto, but I don’t, Yue. And if you let me love you the way I want to, I promise you won’t feel like that anymore.” 

Yut-Lung doesn’t say anything for a while or move, but it’s quite frankly because he _can’t._

On top of how titillated he already is, he also feels like he might cry. 

And, oh god, he hasn’t shed a single fucking tear since his brothers killed his mother.

Not since he started punishing himself by sleeping with multiple people he didn’t give a fuck about even when it was so painful he felt like he might die or when he’s felt so drained yet high off of emotions at the same time that he didn’t know whether to sob or laugh like a madman. Not even when he finally learned why Shorter left him so suddenly. Not when Sing bared his back at him with that word carved so deep into his flesh, and the realization of his careless actions hit him smack in the center of his chest. Hard, like he’d been flung from one end of a room to the other.

“Yue?” Sing’s voice is too damn soft, and it just makes everything worse.

“Shut up,” Yut-Lung mutters. His heart hurts. “I don’t want to listen to you right now.” 

“What, why?—”

“Because I _can’t—”_ The words strain against his constricting throat, and Yut-Lung presses his lips together for some time before trying again. “I can’t understand any of this, what even am I supposed to feel?” 

“Does it have to make sense in the beginning? Can’t it be incomprehensible?” 

Yut-Lung swallows, but the pressure building up in his throat won’t go down. “Please, stop.” 

Sing shakes his head. “I’m asking you why.”

Irritated, Yut-Lung pushes him back, brows drawing together, the feeling hot as it rushes out. “Because, what the hell, you’re going to make me fucking _cry.”_

Sing’s eyes are wide, and he looks so innocent like that. Tilting his head back, Yut-Lung stares up at the low ceiling, willing the tears back as if his eyes can actually absorb the moisture or make them dissipate. 

When they obviously don’t, he lurches forward, grabbing the back of the chair with one hand as he presses his forehead back against Sing’s shoulder, cursing.

“What is it?” Sing leans back so as to let Yut-Lung fall against him instead of holding himself upright.

“It was horrible,” Yut-Lung manages to say. 

“What was?”

“When you left and when my brothers died, I wholly believed I would feel freer—or, or even better, but this immense weight only kept piling up. I _feel_ that it’s my fault and that no matter what I do, the fact that I ruined your family and almost ruined what Ash has just— _really_ murders me in the inside. It’s messing me up. You’re right when you say I want you to hate me, because I feel as if I don’t deserve what you actually feel.” _I want to be punished, over and over again until I feel numb._ Yut-Lung bites down on his bottom lip, releasing it only when he can taste blood. The pain barely registers because the one inside overwhelms everything else. “I feel,” he says, voice hoarse, _“dirty_ when I love someone, I can’t explain it.” 

“I get it. I understand.” Sing’s answer is immediate. He combs Yut-Lung’s hair back fingers catching the strands that are stuck to his wet cheeks, hands cold against Yut-Lung’s skin. “Yue, have you ever made love before?” 

Yut-Lung presses the heel of his hand against one eye, wiping tears away from the other. “What sort of question is that even?” He hates it when his voice trembles and breaks, an octave higher in the end from the strain on his throat. “Why ask when you know?”

“There’s a difference between having sex and making love,” Sing continues. “One is casual and the other is intimate. Maybe you feel the way you do because you’re having a hard time understanding how abstract emotions fit with physical affection. Or maybe you feel undeserving of ever having someone hold you because they love you romantically while you’ve already been held for the sake of pleasure.” His eyes flicker across Yut-Lung’s face. “Well, I guess I’m asking you if you love me. Because if it’s just lukewarm feelings or remorse, I don’t want to hold you in a way that will hurt you.”

“Can you not assume?”

“Mm, I want it straight from your own mouth.”

Yut-Lung can’t look at Sing. “I have felt it before, only not this violent, and it’s… it’s…” 

Sing waits.

Ducking his head down, Yut-Lung shrivels up a little. “It’s fucking embarrassing to say.”

“Okay.”

Yut-Lung freezes.

“I won’t make you say it.”

When Yut-Lung’s eyes fall back on Sing, he sees amusement, but Sing’s eyes are also sparkling, and it makes Yut-Lung’s heart throb. 

“I promised you could take your time, but I’ve been pushy, so I’m sorry about that.”

Yut-Lung doesn’t hold his tongue when he starts cursing at Sing.

 _“I just—”_ Sing’s whole body shakes with laughter as he clings to Yut-Lung. “I’m _not_ making fun of you, and you’re not a joke to me, I really am just—”

Yut-Lung attempts to smack him on the chest, but Sing catches his hand and folds it against the space above his heart. Sing’s heart might really be thumping faster than Yut-Lung’s. “I’m really happy,” he murmurs. “I’ve been happy. It would make me even happier if you said everything straight to me, because I know it takes a lot for you to do so.”

The foul words die on Yut-Lung’s tongue. The hand Sing holds curls inward, fingers scrunching up the cotton fabric. 

And then, fingers taut, he pulls himself down, lips next to Sing’s ear, and says it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yut-Lung's feelings are so complex, it's so hard for me to describe. Anyway, I promised an epilogue for these two, and I've finally gotten around to finishing it! Hopefully, I've conveyed things clear enough for you all to understand; I'm still struggling when it comes to fleshing out emotions. There are a few questions left unanswered here, but I’ll be answering them soon in the last part~ (tbh, I was legit just gonna keep writing, but I think I should stop here for now or I might actually burn out from binge-writing like crazy); thank you for staying with me thus far! ♡


End file.
